Someone To Watch Over Me
by ArthursCamelot
Summary: A HG rewrite. What would happen if Peeta was just a little bit bolder, and Katniss a little less emotionally confused? You'd be surprised. Let the Games begin. This is an AU, but I've tried to stay as canon as possible. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Alrighty! I must say that I'm _psyched_ to be publishing my first **_**Hunger Games**_** fanfiction! I'm new to the HG fandom, writing it at least, so I hope you guys won't hold that against me.**

**That being said, I have some explaining to do before we get to the chapter. If you guys don't want to listen to me blab and defend myself for the changes I'm making, feel free to skip ahead to the chapter. For those of you who are going to stick with me and my rambles, thanks, and I hope it provides at least some form of amusement. :D**

**To me the most important part of a story is not the story itself. It's the characters. If you've got great, multi-dimensional characters, the story will tell itself. I love writing huge character arcs. I like having my characters go from point A to point Z and all the points in between. I feel as though Katniss didn't really change at all. That, and, well, I really didn't like her much. I didn't like how, well, for lack of a better term, _robotic_ Katniss seemed. It was like all the hormones and emotions of a sixteen year old girl eluded her, and I refuse to believe that any girl is _that_ emotionally oblivious and confused, no matter what childhood trauma or naturally reserved demeanor. So, safe to say that in this story, Katniss will be a little different. Will she still be completely badass, emotionally confused, stubborn, insulting, and rude? Yeah. Don't panic. :)**

**Okay, moving on to Peeta. I'll warn you guys now, I ADORE Peeta. I think he's lovely and everything that Katniss needs. However, I think that in canon he was a little too one dimensional. Collins played him as the 'super-nice, moral guy, that is the complete opposite of Katniss,' way too much. Sure in **_**Mockingjay**_** we got a little bit of a twist with the hijacking sub-plot, but, well, I'll tell you that I'm a huge fan of that 'super-nice, moral guy' having a dark side that only comes out when the odds are in its favor (hehe, pun). Now, onto my darker version of Peeta. . .**

**In this story, I'm making Peeta a little bit bolder, a little bit more confident, and a little more prone to violence. We know that Peeta was beaten by his mother for giving Katniss that bread. Now, I know that it's fanon, but I've read a lot of fics where his mom hits him with the rolling pin. So, I'm thinking, if she's freaking hitting him in the face with a rolling pin, it's not her first swing at him. In my story, Peeta is consistently abused by his mother. Now that, to me, definitely changes his character a little. I mean, being abused has a profound effect on someone. So, going with that, I'm making Peeta a little bit more prone to violence. Is he still going to be the sweetheart we all know and love? Definitely. I'm just adding a layer to the onion. I'm gonna make him tougher too, because frankly, the way canon is written he looks like a wimp compared to Katniss, and I like my characters to be on a little bit more of an even playing field.**

**And on just a basic story note, I'm a hopeless romantic. So my version of HG is going to focus a lot more on Katniss's feelings for Peeta and things will progress much faster than in the books. Hopefully, though, it's still a believable emotional arc. **

**Believe me when I say that this is the _longest_ (and probably most boring) author's note I have _ever_ written and I _never_ plan on writing one this long again. For those of you who actually read this entire thing, you deserve an award. A big one. . .like a Peeta Mellark frosted cookie. . .**

**Sooooooooooo. . . . . . . .**

**I guess that's it. **

**Now, on to the first chapter! Woo!**

**Disclaimer: I do _not_ own the Hunger Games. I'm just using them as my puppet pals for a while.**

* * *

Chapter One

_It's cold. The wind is blowing so fiercely that I fear it will blow my starving, skin-and-bones-twelve-year-old body to the muddy ground. Frozen bullets of rain fall from the sky, beating me down, causing my shoulders to hunch. _

_I clutch some tattered old baby clothes in my hands. They were my little sister's, Prim. I tried to sell them in town, but everyone knew that they were worthless and wouldn't even give me a penny for them. We needed money, my sister, my mother, and I. My father, my wonderful father, whom I loved more than anything, had been blown to smithereens in the mines. There hadn't even been anything to bury._

_The Capitol had given my mother enough money for a month, to keep us alive until she found a job. The only problem with that plan was that my mother died along with my father, not literally, but figuratively. I could see it in her eyes when she'd just sit and stare at the wall, oblivious to mine and my sister's cries. _

_The cold is seeping into my weary bones, and I'm desperate for food. It's been days living only on boiled water and mint leaves and I know that we won't last much longer. I won't last. My family will die. Prim will die. And it will be all my fault._

_I'm passing by the alleyways in town where the merchants live. I see trash cans and a glimmer of hope warms me a little. I'd take scraps any day of the week. The first set of trash cans I see are behind the bakery. I realize this because as soon as I'm within range, the tantalizing smell of baking bread hits my nostrils and I feel my body shake with hunger._

_I scurry as quickly as I can to the trash cans. Moldy bread would be god-sent at the moment. I open the lid and my hope flickers out completely. It's empty. . .like so many things in my life now. Empty. Gone. Nonexistent. _

_Suddenly, a loud, screeching voice reaches my ears, startling me so much that I almost fall. The baker's wife is yelling at me, calling me a brat from the Seam. I'm worthless, pawing through people's trash. She threatens to call the Peacekeepers on me. Eventually, when she sees me try to scurry away from her and her words, she leaves, thinking she's done the job._

_But I can't go home. I can't go home without something. I can't face my living dead mother. I can't face my starving little sister's face. Sunken cheeks and cracked lips. I just can't._

_My feet carry me beneath a barren apple tree, and I feel the baby clothes slip from my hands. I leave them there in the mud. They're worthless. Like me. I sink to my knees in defeat, knowing that I'll probably die. Right here. Under this apple tree. In an alley behind the bakery, the food I so desperately need having never been so close—yet so far._

_I hear screeching again and look up. From the golden light of the ovens I see a blonde haired, blue-eyed boy. He's my age in school, Peeta Mellark. My attention focuses back on the screeching and I know it's coming from his mother. I'm shocked when I see her whack him across the face with something. A rolling pin? Even more shocking to me is how he simply takes the hit, like he'd known it was coming and had accepted it. What had he done?_

_I hear her words carry on the wind as Peeta steps outside, clutching two loaves of bread in his arms. "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No decent person will buy burnt bread!"_

_I watch as he begins to tear off chunks of the loaves and toss them to the pigs. Suddenly, he looks my way and those blue eyes meet my grey ones. We've never talked in school. Never said a single word to each other. But in this moment, we're communicating like we've known each other since birth. Simple eye contact is all that is needed._

_Peeta glances back towards the bakery and then back at me. Suddenly, he's running toward me, the loaves clutched protectively against his chest. He reaches me and I'm completely stunned when he speaks. "Here." He places them in my hands and I immediately grab them to my chest and enclose them protectively in my father's hunting jacket. "It's the best I could do."_

_I look up at him, shocked. He'd burnt them on purpose? For me? "Why?" I ask, surprising myself._

_He looks at me, as if debating his answer. "Because it was the right thing to do."_

I open my eyes and blink rapidly, trying to bat away the dream. I know it's fruitless. This will not be the last time I relive this dream, this memory. The moment with the bread was a turning point in my life. It was a new beginning. It forever linked me with Peeta Mellark, much to my irritation.

I remember how, the next day at school, I'd watched him. I had to hide a wince every time I saw the large, red welt on the side of his face. Evidence of his punishment. Punishment for doing the right thing, for showing the greatest kindness.

I'd tried to work up the opportunity to thank him, but every time the opportunity presented itself I chickened out, my courage fleeing out the door. I had so many opportunities. The hallway. The cafeteria. We had science together that year and I'd sat two rows behind him. I could have easily flicked him a note, but I couldn't even do that.

Finally, the bell had rung, signaling the end of the day and I'd gone across the schoolyard to a scraggly old tree where I waited for Prim. And then, like the night before in the rain, when I looked up, I was staring into a pair of blue eyes. He was across the yard, apparently having stopped walking home. We stared at each other, and I knew that this was my chance. I opened my mouth to speak. I willed my feet to move.

I remained silent and still. The best I could seem to manage was to simply mouth the words. _Thank you._

Apparently, he'd understood because I'd been able to see the corner of his lips quirk up into a smile and he nodded his head slightly. It was then that I finally ducked my head down, my courage all but run out. However, the new object of my gaze was a yellow weed. A dandelion.

And suddenly I knew how to survive. The lessons my father had taught me. The woods. I could survive.

I owe Peeta Mellark my life, my renewed hope. Unless there ever came a time when I had the opportunity to save his life from certain death, I would be forever in his debt.

I hated owing people.

Shaking my thoughts away from a certain baker boy, I realize that the bed is not as warm as it should be. I look to the pillow next to mine and realize that Prim is not with me. My eyes immediately zone in on the bed across the room and sure enough, there she is, cocooned in our mother's embrace. She must have sought our mother's solace sometime during the night. After all, it is reaping day.

I take the time to gaze at my little sister, Primrose, who is affectionately nicknamed Prim. Prim is, in one word, delicate. Her skin is fair and a rosy blush colors her cheeks. Parted in an 'o' shape are pretty pink lips, making her look younger than she already is. Behind her closed lids are big blue eyes. Her golden hair fans out across her pillow, looking like a halo. If there were any angels in this harsh world, Prim would be one of them.

My gaze moves to my mother. We don't have the best relationship. It could have something to do with the fact that she sat by and stared blankly at a wall while her children begged and pleaded for her, slowly starving to death. That would drive a wedge into any relationship, I think. I doubt I'll ever forgive her, and to be honest I'm not the forgiving type.

People tell me that she was beautiful once and it's in times like these where I can see it—when her face is relaxed in sleep, when she's escaped reality. Her beaten and weathered face lessens slightly. However, I know that the moment she wakes, I'll be greeted with a tired face and dull blue eyes. Her blonde hair, so like Prim's and yet not, will hang lank. She'll look like the dead walking and I figure that she basically is. She died when our father did.

Judging by the light in the room, or lack thereof, I can estimate that there's between one and two hours before dawn. I swing my legs out of bed and stand, quickly getting dressed. I throw on a pair of jeans and a tattered t-shirt. My feet slip into the supple leather of my boots. Quick, practiced fingered twist my long, dark hair into a braid that I let rest over my right shoulder. I shrug on my father's hunting jacket and cross the room.

On the way out I pass the ugliest cat to ever exist. Affectionately named Buttercup by Prim, he resembles nothing of his namesake. He as a smashed-in face, half of one ear, and a mangy yellow coat with matching dull yellow eyes. I hate him and he hates me. His hate might stem from the fact that I tried to drown him when Prim first brought him home, all flea-bitten, wormy, and pathetic.

He hisses at me as I pass him, and I resist the urge to hiss back.

I make my way into the kitchen and stop at the kitchen table. I lift the overturned bowl on top and find a present to me from Prim. I know that it is goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves from her goat, Lady. I pocket the cheese carefully and head out the door, grabbing my game bag on the way.

I step out into the Seam, my home that I share with the poorest of the poor in District 12—the coal miners. Everything is covered in coal dust, there's no getting rid of it. On a normal morning, I'd see tired men lugging their way home after a long day in the mines. Hardworking women that walk hunched over due to their invisible heavy burden. Always fighting starvation. Always fighting to provide enough for their families. This was the Seam of District 12.

However, on this day, the streets are bare. I don't pass a single soul, but this doesn't surprise me. No one will work today—might as well try to sleep in. The houses I pass are locked up tight, as if anything could hold off the impending evil of the reaping, which would occur today at two o' clock in the town square.

Today, two children, a boy and a girl from the ages twelve to eighteen would be chosen to die.

My destination, the Meadow, looms in front of me and I quicken my pace slightly. It isn't a true meadow. It isn't lush and green. It isn't pretty. It is simply a small expanse of barely alive grass that is riddled with weeds.

A tall chain link fence comes into view as I pass through the Meadow. Supposedly, the fence surrounds the entirety of District 12 to keep the occasional cougar, rare bear, or pack of wild dogs from getting into town. But, honestly, I wonder if it's really here to keep _us_ in.

Ideally, the fence is supposed to be electrified twenty-four seven, but since we're lucky here in 12 to get even three hours of electricity, the fence is rarely live. Still, I'm always cautious, and I pause to listen for the tell-tale hum of electricity. I hear nothing but crickets.

Large, menacing loops of barbed wire adorn the top of the fence, so going over isn't an option. You can't go around it either. So, the only option left is to go under, and that's exactly what I do. My favorite weak spot in the fence is only two feet in length, but it is more than enough space for me to slip under. I flatten out on my stomach and slink under the fence, and once I'm in the woods I feel myself begin to relax. The woods are safe. They're my haven. It might have something to do with the fact that I have many fond memories of me and my father in these woods, and I always feel closer to him here.

Treading a path through the trees, I make my way surely to a specific hollow log. Once I reach it, my hand dives into its depths and I retrieve my father's hunting bow and a sheath of arrows. My father could have made some decent money selling his bows. They were all hand-crafted and I had a couple more hidden throughout the woods. However, selling the bows would have been a death sentence, and the Peacekeepers would have shot him on the spot for inciting a rebellion. If you put a weapon in the people's hands they might use it.

I begin my hunt with a practiced ease. My feet make no sound as I stalk through the forest. A flurry of fur catches my eye and I spin around, string an arrow, and then let it fly—all in one, smooth motion. I hear a thud, and I know my arrow hit home. I retrieve the arrow and put the squirrel it skewered into my game bag. Within fifteen minutes, I have two more squirrels.

I retreat back to the hollow log, carefully placing my bow and arrows in their waterproof covers. I slip back under the fence and quickly make my way back to the Seam. Except I do not return home. I keep walking towards town.

When I reach the outskirts of town, I am not surprised to find that none of the merchants are up. They rose later than the Seam anyway, and on a day like today they won't open up their shops. I pass the apothecary shop, the one that my mother's family used to own. My mother is originally from town, and she'd met my father because he'd come by and trade herbs. They fell in love and she left the town for the Seam—for my father. This is why my mother's and Prim's blonde hair and blue eyes contrast so much with the rest of us from the Seam—dark hair, olive skin, grey eyes.

I smell my destination before I see it. The aroma of freshly baked bread hits my nostrils and the excess saliva that floods my mouth causes me to swallow convulsively. My stomach rumbles in hunger, but I ignore it. I approach the bakery cautiously, making sure that the witch isn't near. I see a familiar figure through the window and know that the coast is clear.

Silently I enter the bakery, and yet, much to my chagrin, he somehow notices.

"If you were any quieter, you'd have to be dead," Peeta tells me as he turns to face me, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Peeta Mellark hasn't really changed much since our first encounter when he threw me the bread. He still has blonde curly hair that hangs over his forehead and he still has the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen. However, he's now much bigger than his twelve year old self. He's a whole head taller than me. I only come up to his shoulder. All the years of hard work in the bakery, tossing around hundred pound bags of flour have given him broad, muscled shoulders and strong arms. At school, from what I've heard at least, Peeta Mellark is considered the cream of the crop of District 12.

Even I can't deny that he's handsome. I'm a girl too. Not a normal one, but still a girl.

But that's not important. My mind focuses back to the present. He's mocking me and my silent tread that he knows I'm proud of. I remember what he said. About being any quieter and I'd have to be dead.

I scowl, both at the dig and the fact that I really don't want to hear anything about being dead. Especially not today. As if reading my thoughts, Peeta frowns and immediately apologizes. "Sorry. Bad choice of words."

I almost laugh at the irony. Peeta Mellark has a way with words. Aside from his natural charm, he could use words in a way that I didn't know possible. He could sway a crowd into thinking that the sky was green and that pigs flew. I wonder if he had any clue about the effect he had on people.

"No problem," I say before getting down to business. "I've got squirrels."

"I've got bread."

This little exchange refers to our mutual agreement. The Mellark's are fond of squirrel, and the only thing they have to trade for it is bread. Two squirrels usually equal a loaf. "Well let's see them," he says and I set the squirrels on the counter. Peeta examines them silently before nodding to himself. "Good shot."

He says this every time. I don't answer.

Peeta and I aren't friends. After the bread incident, we didn't even talk to each other until a few years later. The bakery had hit a rough spot, and Mr. Mellark had to raise prices, even though I knew it practically killed him to do it. I knew Mr. Mellark to be a fair and kind man. He always gave me a good trade, just like his son.

At school I recognized the symptoms of hunger in Peeta and I knew I had to do something, like how he had done something for me. I had to, figuratively of course, find a way to throw him some bread. And so I journeyed into the woods and hunted overtime for weeks. I would lay the squirrels on their back steps and never took more than a loaf of bread in trade, no matter how many squirrels I brought them.

Thus began the silent scoreboard between Peeta and I. Somehow, we spawned a game of paying each other back. It was like how one day, Prim had dragged me to the window of the bakery to look at the cakes. Admittedly, they were the prettiest cakes I'd ever seen, even if they were the only cakes I'd ever seen. Prim's 10th birthday was the next day and she mentioned, with a slightly dreamy quality in her voice, how she wished that one day she could try a frosted cookie.

Of course, in the next second, I made it my new goal in life to eventually make that dream come true.

Imagine my fury when I found a brown paper bag on our front porch the very next morning, containing a single, primrose-frosted cookie. The only reason I didn't throw it out was because of Prim. I couldn't deny her anything, even if it meant me owing Peeta Mellark even more.

It didn't help that every year after on Prim's birthday I found an identical brown paper bag on my front porch, holding an identical primrose-frosted cookie. I never told her that they came from Peeta. If I did that would mean that she would do something nice and considerate, like run up to him at school with a big smile on her sweet little face and thank Peeta with a multitude of giggles and 'thank you so much.' This would mean that I, by extension, would probably be required to say something, and I didn't really want to talk to the boy. He always made me uncomfortable. My emotions, always kept under firm control, seemed to fly into a frenzy anytime I was near him. I blame the fact that he saved my life. It was because I owed him. That was the reason he made me uncomfortable, because I knew I'd never be able to pay him back. So, to avoid all of this, I simply told Prim that I'd worked out a deal with Mr. Mellark, a trade for the cookie.

I'd gotten Peeta back though, when I'd dropped off a thigh from a doe that I'd been lucky enough to come across. The happy coincidence that it was on his birthday, or so I had learned the next day, just made my win a little bit sweeter.

These little attempts to one-up the other resulted in a few stilted conversations over the course of the past two years. We'd typically stick to monosyllabic conversations, usually consisting of "Hey" or "Hi." Yet, lately, I'd been doing my trades with Peeta instead of his father, so that forced us to say more than a single word to each other.

I return to my senses when I hear his footsteps. I look up and see that he's right in front of me. How had I not noticed his approach until now? I take a small step back and reach for the bag he hands me. It feels heavier than it should be, and I glance inside.

"This is too much," I say. He's given me a single loaf and two cheese buns—not our normal trade.

"You gave me three squirrels," he shrugs.

"I can't take them," I say, referring to the cheese buns.

Peeta gets this look on his face, like suddenly he's so much older than me and I'm just a kid. I hate it when he looks at me like this. "Sometimes Katniss, people do something just because they can, expecting nothing in return. Life's not always a business deal."

I purse my lips. I hate that he's right. He's proven this fact to me, and I hate it because it conflicts with my own inner rules that help keep me sane. I have to see life as a day to day thing. I make trades. Business. Business and trades keep me and Prim alive. I don't have room for random kindness, but Peeta, whether inadvertently or purposefully, though I assume it's the former, has taught me that sometimes people do things out of the kindness of their hearts, expecting nothing in return. Peeta proved that to me when he gave me that bread four years ago.

"Fine," I say with a scowl and a hint of a smile plays at his lips.

"I know they're your favorite anyway," he says. "Knew you'd cave."

I scoff. "Shut it, Mellark." I've only ever called him by his first name once. "You don't know me."

I begin to stalk out of the bakery, but his voice calls me back. "Katniss!"

I spin back around to face him. "What?" I hiss.

Peeta's expression is serious and solemn. "Good luck."

My face softens without my permission. "You too."

And with that I'm out the door and heading toward the Seam, toward the Meadow, toward the woods. The first tendrils of light are beginning to break through the night sky, and I slip under the fence just as the sun begins to rise.

I retrieve my bow and arrows once more, but I don't hunt. I carry them and the bread to a special place. Gale is already there, waiting for me. Our little hideout isn't much. It's just an enclave of rock that allows for us to see everything, but remain invisible to everything else. It looks out over the valley, lush and green and full of life. I love this place. I love the woods. Gale says it's the only place where I ever smile.

He hears me approach and turns a little bit in my direction. "Hey, Catnip."

Gale calls me Catnip. The nickname goes back to our very first meeting when I was twelve, braving the woods by myself. He was fourteen, only two years older than me, but he was already built like a man back then. He'd asked me my name and I'd whispered it so quietly, he'd thought I'd said 'Catnip.' Of course, the nickname officially stuck when a lynx started following me around.

"Look what I got," I say as I sit down beside him and open up the bag. The aroma of the bread wafts up between us, and I can't help it when my eyes close and I sigh. I open them when I hear Gale's voice.

"What did you trade for this?"

"Three squirrels," I answer.

"All this for three squirrels?" Gale is suspicious, and I placate him.

"He was feeling generous, I guess," I say by way of explanation. I've never told him about my trades with Peeta, and I've never mentioned the silent game of payback that we play. I don't know why, but it's never struck me as being right. I associate Peeta and Gale in completely separate areas of my mind. Gale is safe. Gale is my hunting partner, my best friend.

Peeta is . . . something . . .

I sigh inwardly and purge all thoughts of Peeta from my brain. He always gives me a headache.

Gale doesn't notice my internal turmoil and accepts my explanation. "It's reaping day."

I nod, fishing Prim's gift out of my pocket. "Prim gave us cheese."

Gale grins. Everyone is fond of Prim. "Thank you, Prim," he says. "We'll have a real feast."

I take a knife from Gale and begin to slice the loaf of bread and slather it with Prim's cheese while Gale picks some blackberries from the bushes around us. Suddenly, Gale slips into the hilarious, uppity Capitol accent of Effie Trinket, our district escort. "Oh, I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He tosses a blackberry in a high arc toward me as he says, "And my the odds—"

I catch the blackberry in my mouth and reply, "—be _ever_ in your favor!"

It's easier to joke about it than to accept it as our near reality in only a few hours.

We eat in silence for the most part, having come to the understanding without words that we would leave the cheese buns for later tonight. That's how things are with Gale and me. We don't need words. We have our own silent language that no one else understands.

After a while, Gale speaks. "We could do it you know . . . make a run for it."

I know what he's referring to, running away into the woods. He's mentioned it before, but my answer will always be the same. "No we can't."

The idea itself is ridiculous.

"We know these woods, Catnip," he says fervently. "We could live out here on our own, away from the Capitol, free."

"Prim—" I begin, but he interrupts.

"Of course we'll bring the kids," he says.

They're not our kids, but honestly they might as well be. I have Prim and Gale has three younger siblings: Rory, Vick, and Posy. Our mothers might as well be added into the brood since me and Gale provide for them too.

The idea is simply too flawed, though, and I don't know if any place is truly out of reach of the Capitol's claws.

The fact that the reaping is today hits me again, and I think of the children who are at risk, not just me, but Gale and Prim and all the others. I'm surprised when Peeta comes to mind. When did he end up on my list of people to worry about?

"I never want to have kids," I say before I can stop myself.

"I might," Gale admits and I'm surprised. "If I didn't live here."

"But you do," I argue irritated.

"Forget it," he snaps and I slip into a mess of thoughts in my head.

Running away into the woods. Prim. But even if Gale and I did escape into the woods, what's all the talk about kids? Admittedly, I brought it up unintentionally, but I expected him to agree with me. Why hadn't he? It only made sense to agree with me.

Things had never been romantic between us. After we'd begun to trust each other, I'd come to see him as an older brother. He's my best friend. I pause to look at him. He has sharp, angular features—a rugged look. Dark hair, olive skin, grey eyes—the typical Seam look—but no one can deny that he's good looking. If he wanted kids, Gale wouldn't have trouble finding a wife. I hear the whispers at school. There's more than one pair of female's eyes on him.

We finish eating and decide to fish and gather. By noon we've got six fish, some greens, and most importantly, a gallon of strawberries. We hide our weapons and go to the Hob, which is the blackmarket of District 12. We trade with Greasy Sae, an older woman who can make a soup out of anything, and she gives us a few chunks of paraffin in return for the greens.

Next, we head through town to Mayor Undersee's house. Madge answers the door and she offers us a soft, but genuine greeting. Madge is probably my only friend aside from Gale. Even though she's a townie, she doesn't act like it. She's quiet like me, which causes us to end up together a lot at school. Projects, sports, lunch, things like that.

She's also a huge fan of strawberries.

We sell her the entire gallon, and she gives us a fair price for them.

As we walk home, Gale's mood becomes more and more sour. The reaping is in less than two hours and all his rage for the Capitol is beginning to surface. I may hate the Capitol, but I don't harbor the rage against them that Gale seems to. I know that if we were in the woods, where no one could hear us, he would be yelling, on one of his rants about how the reaping is just another way for the Capitol to control us.

See, the reaping isn't entirely fair. Once you turn twelve, your name is automatically entered once. But for a meager year's worth of grain and oil, you can take out tesserae. The catch is that you get your name entered another time. You can do this for each family member as well. So, when I turned twelve, my name was in the reaping ball four times.

Getting a little extra food in a starving place like District 12 outweighed the higher probability of you getting reaped. This year, my name would be in the reaping ball twenty times. I've taken out tesserae every year. Gale, who is older than me and providing for four others, will have his name entered forty-two times.

When we reach my house, I turn to him. "See you in the square."

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.

I walk into my house and find that Prim is already dressed. She's wearing my first reaping outfit. A straight grey skirt and white ruffled blouse that is too big for her, but mother has made it work with pins. Still, despite her efforts, the back of Prim's shirt hangs out and a genuine, soft smile graces my face. "Tuck in your tail, little duck," I tell her.

She looks and me and smiles. "Quack."

I laugh, something that only Prim can get me to do. "Quack yourself."

I leave her in the kitchen with my mother and go into the bathroom where a tub of warm water awaits me. I scrub the dirt and sweat from my body and wash my hair. I towel off and step into my bedroom and see that a blue dress from my mother's apothecary days is lying out on the bed. I'm shocked when she comes in behind me. Her dresses are very dear to her.

"Are you sure?" I ask, wanting to make sure. I notice that she's looking a bit more alive today.

"Yes," she replies. "I can do your hair," she offers quietly and I nod my consent. For the longest time I wouldn't let her do anything for me, my resentment of her overpowering any need I had for motherly doting and love. I know she treasures little things like doing my hair and so I say nothing in complaint as she towel dries my hair and puts it up into an elaborate braid.

When I'm dressed and ready, I look into the cracked, dust-covered mirror that leans against the wall. I don't recognize myself. "You look beautiful," Prim tells me softly.

I bend down to her height. "And nothing like myself," I reply. "You, on the other hand, look _very_ beautiful."

Prim beams.

After a brief attempt at lunch and pretending it's just another day, we head out toward the square. Since it's logistically impossible for District 12's eight thousand residents to cram into the square, they occupy the side streets, watching the reaping from the big television screens that are littered throughout the main part of town. The reaping is required viewing and attendance. If you're not knocking on death's door, you're supposed to be here.

Of course, according to that thought, I suppose we should all have just stayed home.

All the kids are roped off into sections by age. I move up front while Prim stays in the back with the rest of the twelve year olds. I'm in a group of Seam kids and we all nod to each other, acknowledging, but no one speaks.

I look in front of me to the Justice Building. The Capitol has set up a stage. On the stage is Effie Trinket, our district escort, who, this year, is sporting light pink hair and a spring green suit. Her face and smile are as pale as ever and I can't believe that her overall appearance is considered remotely fashionable. There are three chairs on the stage. One for Effie, one for Mayor Undersee, and the third is for our only living victor of District 12, Haymitch Abernathy. He has yet to make his typical drunken appearance. Last, but certainly not least, are the two giant glass balls that hold the names of all the boys and girls in District 12 from ages twelve to eighteen. I glare at all those slips of paper, knowing that twenty of them are adorned with my name.

Finally, the Mayor goes to the microphone and begins to speak. He talks about the history of Panem and how great storms and droughts and floods caused the land once known as North American to fall. From the devastation rose the Capitol and the thirteen districts that surrounded it, creating the nation of Panem. He goes on to tell of the Dark Days, the days when the nation's districts rebelled. The Capitol won, defeating the districts and obliterating District 13 entirely. As punishment for the rebellion, the Capitol created the Hunger Games. A tournament held each year where two tributes from each district, a boy and a girl aged twelve to eighteen, are selected to fight to the death in an immense outdoor arena that could be anything from a frozen wasteland to a burning desert.

The last one standing was the winner, and as reward they were showered with gifts, along with their district—mostly food.

This is just a way to torture us all. We are required to watch the Games. We are forced to watch children murder each other all for the sake of a Game. The message from the Capitol was clear. They are in power. We had no hope. They have the power.

It is always about power. They have it. We don't.

"It is both a time of repentance and a time of thanks," the Mayor finishes. I practically have the whole speech memorized. I've heard it more than enough times.

Next, he reads the list of past victors. We've only had two and only one is still alive—Haymitch Abernathy—who chooses now to make his drunken appearance on stage. We all watch as he tries to give Effie a hug. He ends up falling into his chair, but not before he'd messed up Effie's hair. I bet it is a wig because her curls look off-center. The Mayor is trying to get things under control. He knows that Haymitch is making a laugh-stock of District 12. But then again, no one cares about our district anyway. Everyone knows that the term _tribute_ in District 12 is just another word for _corpse_.

Effie goes to the microphone, trying to rein in her dignity, if she has any. She certainly doesn't lose her peppy demeanor. "Happy Hunger Games!" She's practically bubbling in excitement, like this is the best day ever. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

"Ladies first!" she intones before going over to the girls reaping ball.

I think of how I have twenty slips. I barely give a thought to Prim. I never let her sign up for tesserae and she's only twelve so she only has one slip. One slip of thousands. Just one. I don't have to worry.

The crowd's breath hitches as Effie Trinket finally plucks out a single slip of paper, some pour girl's death warrant. I hope it's not me. She goes to the podium and announces the name in a crisp, clear voice.

It's not my name she reads.

It's Prim's.

I can't breathe. I can't think. The world tips on its axis and I feel someone grab my arm. Maybe I'd been about to fall. Nothing makes sense to me right now. It can't be true. This can't be happening. One slip. One single slip. One single slip amongst thousands. The odds were supposed to be in her favor.

I look up and see her moving slowly toward the stage. She's fighting back tears, I can tell, but her hands are clenched into tight, little fists at her sides and she's walking bravely up to the stage. She passes me and I see that her shirt has become untucked in the back. A duck tail. My little duck.

This spurs me into action.

"Prim!"

I begin to make my way through the crowd. They make room. They don't stop me.

"Prim!"

My voice is stronger now. I'm yelling. "I volunteer!" I don't pause to question my actions. I have to protect Prim. It's my whole purpose for living. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Effie begins to go on about procedure, but I don't listen. I've caught up to Prim, and she's clutching at my waist. Tears are pouring down her face as I try to get her to let go of me, but she won't budge.

"No, Katniss! No!" she cries and it's taking all my willpower to hold back my tears.

"Let me go, Prim," I say. I can hear Effie calling me to the stage. I have to go. "Let me go, Prim!" I repeat harshly, my emotions choking me.

Suddenly, Gale appears and he sweeps Prim into his arms. She's screaming her protests, still crying, still reaching for me, but I turn away and approach the stage.

Effie Trinket is having a field day. She's even bubblier than before, if possible.

"Well bravo!" she gushes. "I'd bet my buttons that's you sister, hmm? Don't want her to steal all the glory? Come on everybody, let's give our newest tribute from District 12 a big round of applause!"

Silence.

Suddenly, I see a man raise three fingers to his lips and then hold his hand out to me. Then another follows his actions, and another. Eventually, the entire square is saluting me. It's an old gesture, usually only seen at funerals. It means admiration, it means love—it's a good-bye.

This action almost brings me to tears.

Ironically enough, Haymitch is the one who saves me from showing such emotion on live television. He throws his arm around me and I can smell the reek of white liquor on his breath. "I like this one!" he says. "She's got lots of. . .spunk!" He glares toward the closest television screen in front of us. Pointing an accusing finger, he begins to yell. "More than you!" He stumbles drunkenly. "More than you!"

I don't know if he's accusing the Capitol, and I'll never find out because he takes a nosedive off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

This is great because all the cameras are now on him and not me. I have a chance to compose myself.

Effie tries to soldier on. "Well, isn't this exciting?" Her wig is practically hanging at a ninety degree angle. Secretly, I'm hoping that if falls.

"Now, on to the boy tribute!"

She barely pauses. She plucks out the first slip her hand touches. I'm anxious to hear who it is, who my district partner will be. I pray that it is no one I know. It will be easier if I don't know them. If I do know them, it will be harder to kill them.

Effie unfolds the slip and reads the name. For the second time today, my world stops and I can't breathe.

_Peeta Mellark._

Why? I think. Why? Why? Why?

My eyes immediately zone in on his familiar figure. I see his broad, muscled shoulders cutting through the crowd. His blonde curls are a dead giveaway. I watch him approach the stage. His face mainly shows shock. However, when our eyes meet, that shock is immediately overtaken by fear and worry.

Effie babbles on, but I don't take my eyes off of Peeta. When he finally comes to stand next to me, it's as if for the first time I notice how much bigger he is than me. He's a whole head taller and probably has a good hundred pounds of muscle on me.

I vaguely hear Effie telling us to shake hands, and when my hand grasps his, he gives it a squeeze. I know Peeta. He's trying to reassure me.

We turn and face forward as the anthem begins to play, and I don't give a thought to the fact that we haven't let go of each other's hands.

* * *

**There you have it! The first chapter. Most of the chapters will not be this long. The first couple are, but that's because it's a lot of background and stuff. When the action starts I'll shorten the chapters to make it seem faster paced. Don't worry though, my chapters will still be at least 3500 words, with the occasional shorter chapter. **

**Anything that you recognize from the book, mainly dialogue, is supposed to be there. Some of the dialogue is just too good to rewrite.**

**If you haven't noticed, I'm very thorough in my rewrites. This thing will read like a book. Though this chapter is a lot like the book, there really wasn't much I could do to change it. The main difference that you can see, I hope, is the tone and how different Katniss is. I mean, Peeta's already 'something.' Progress! **

**I hope that you guys are enjoying my versions of Peeta and Katniss, and if you're a little wary, stick with me for a few chapters and you'll see their characters flesh out a little more. Since this is an AU, anything OOC is purposeful and I've explained my reasoning (I've found that when tweaking beloved characters, reasons for doing so are appreciated). Peeta simply has a little bit more of an edge. He'll say and do things that he wouldn't normally say or do. Katniss simply isn't as emotionally oblivious and stunted. . .that will change a **_**lot**_**.**

**Though this is an AU, I'm trying to stay as canon as possible. Think of my version of events as totally different and yet basically the same as the book. Okay, that's probably a little confusing. It actually made a convoluted sort of sense in my head . . .**

**You'll probably just have to stick with me to see what I mean (and please stick with me!) :)**

**Anywho, I think I've bored you enough with my author's notes! I swear from here on out, I'm pretty short and sweet and to the point! :D**

**This entire thing is written already, so I'll post consistently. Tuesdays and Saturdays expect an update!**

**Review? Pretty please? I've never been more wary posting a fic! (bites nails nervously)**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for all of the reviews, favorites, and alerts! You. Are. Awesome. I am beyond thrilled that you guys like my new dynamic between Peeta and Katniss (big sigh of relief). **

**See? This A/N is soooo much shorter than it's predecessor!**

**Disclaimer: I do _not_ own the _Hunger Games_. They're just my puppet pals for a while.**

* * *

Chapter 2

When the anthem ends, a group of Peacekeepers approach us to lead us into the Justice Building. It is only when they begin to separate us do I realize that I'm still clutching Peeta's hand like a lifeline. Immediately, I drop it like it burnt me and walk a little faster. The Peacekeepers don't seem to mind my change of pace and propel me forward. I try not to think about the flash of hurt I saw in Peeta's eyes when I dropped his hand like it was poison.

The Peacekeepers escort me to a room, a holding area. I'm pushed none too gently into the middle of the room and the door slams behind me. I take in my surroundings, a habit of every hunter worth their salt. The room may be small, but it is the richest I have ever seen. My feet are sinking into the deep, plush carpet. A single loveseat sits in the middle of the room, and I sit down on it. Immediately, I recognize the feel of the material. Velvet. The only reason I know this is because the collar of one of my mother's dresses is made of the soft fabric. Almost in a daze, I run my fingers over it, feeling the fuzzy texture under my fingertips. It has an odd calming effect. I hold onto the peace that I've been able to find because I know that I'll need it. I have to be strong because the next hour will be the time allotted to me to say good-bye to my loved ones.

The door is suddenly thrown open and all I see is a blur of blonde hair before Prim's skinny arms are flung around my neck. She climbs into my lap and rests her head on my shoulder, clinging to me like she did when she was younger. The action almost brings tears to my eyes, but I hold them back. I can't cry now. They'll think I've given up, and I can't let them think that . . . even if it's true.

The truth is that I really don't have a shot at winning these games. Tributes from the richer districts, like 1, 2, and 4 actually train for the Games. The boys will be two or three times my size. The girls will know twenty different ways to kill me with a single knife. What chance do I stand against those odds? I can shoot a bow. I throw knives decently. But I don't have the strength. I don't have the skill. I don't have the bloodlust that seems essential to winning the Games.

But I have to be strong. For Prim.

My mother joins us on the couch, her arms enveloping Prim and me. We stay like that for a few minutes before I get my head in gear. I begin telling them all that they need to know. I tell them how to survive. The first thing out of my mouth is the most important. Prim will not sign up for tesserae. I stare into my mother's eyes when I say this, trying to get her to understand that this rule cannot be broken. Prim can make enough money selling milk and cheese from her goat. I tell them that Gale will give them fresh game. He and I came to this agreement a year ago if either of us were ever chosen. I know that Gale probably won't take anything in return, but I tell Prim and my mother to at least give him some milk or medicine.

Finally, I turn to my mother. "You can't leave again, do you understand?" I can't have her falling into that inescapable sadness again. I won't be there to fend for Prim. I won't be there to protect her.

"I know. I won't."

"You stay strong." I order. She has to understand. "You can't fall apart. I won't be here to keep you alive." I know that she knows that when I say _you_, I really mean Prim.

"I know," my mother repeats. "I won't."

When I've run out of things to say, Prim finally speaks. She looks up at me, her big blue eyes still teary, but she looks so earnest. "I'll be alright, Katniss," she tells me. "But you be alright, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win."

I don't have the heart to tell her that I won't win, but I am a fighter. I'm not going to roll over and accept my death. No, I'll fight to the end. This is what prompts me to say, "Maybe."

"I just want you to come home." Prim's eyes begin to water and her hold on me tightens. "You'll try, won't you?" she asks. "You'll really, really try?"

I've never been able to deny Prim anything, and it's this fact that causes me to answer honestly. "I'll try." I will try to win. For Prim.

"Promise?"

I try to smile, and I think I manage it. "Promise."

The door is opened then and the Peacekeepers tell us that our time is up. They begin to escort my mother and Prim out and I'm suddenly talking faster than I ever have before. "I love you! I love you both!" I say it over and over and they repeat it back to me. The moment the door shuts, it's far too quiet in the room and I don't like it. I don't like the thought that this could be the last time I ever see them again. I close my eyes and hold onto their faces in my mind. I try and memorize them so completely that I'll never forget a single detail.

I'm startled when I hear the door open once more. I'm even more surprised when I see who my new visitor is. Mr. Mellark. Peeta's father. We're both quiet. I think he's just as surprised that he's here as I am. He hands me a brown paper bag, and I'm familiar enough with those bags that I know the goodies that it contains. I take the bag and open it. Just as I thought. Frosted cookies.

Peeta may have inherited his father's kindness, but I had no idea where he had gotten his penchant for words because Mr. Mellark is a very quiet person. Kind of like me. We are people of few words. If we say something it is because it needs to be said. Otherwise we are both content to say nothing at all.

I'm tempted to ask him if he's seen Peeta already. I would assume he has. They seem to be very close, as far as I've been able to tell. I wonder where Peeta's brothers are too. Peeta is the youngest of three. One brother, the oldest, Chris, is nineteen or twenty, I think. He got married last year. However, Rye, the second oldest, is eighteen. He could have volunteered to take Peeta's place, like I had for Prim. He didn't. I guess family loyalty only went so far. But then again, I know that Peeta wouldn't want to see anyone die in his place.

The Peacekeeper that seems to be guarding the door steps into the room and tells us that our time is up. Mr. Mellark looks at me then and says, "I'll look out for the girl, make sure she's eating."

A weight is lifted off my shoulders as I realize that I have one more person looking out for Prim. "Thank you," I tell him with as much sincerity as I can.

He nods and leaves the room. However, he's not gone for ten seconds before Madge steps into the room. She doesn't waste time. She comes right up to me, and I notice that she has something in her hand. It's her gold pin. It's circular and inside the circle is a bird. She wears it every reaping day, but she's never mentioned it and so neither have I.

"Will you wear this?" she asks.

I stare at her blankly and she continues. "You're allowed to bring a token. To remind you of your district," she explains. I haven't even thought about a token. "Will you wear it?"

I nod and she quickly pins it onto my dress. It's then that I notice what kind of bird is shown in the pin. It's a mockingjay.

Back in the Dark Days, during the rebellion, the Capitol got creative. They would genetically enhance many species of animals, called muttations, or mutts for short. One of these anomalies was the jabberjay. A jabberjay had the ability to listen and record whole conversations between people and then repeat them back. They would fly back to the Capitol, repeat what they had heard from the rebels and then be sent back out to procure more information. Of course, eventually the rebels figured it out and then the joke was on the Capitol. The rebels fed the birds lies, and the Capitol quickly disbanded their use. They set the jabberjays free, thinking that they would die in the forest.

They didn't. In fact, the male jabberjays mated with female mockingbirds. The result was the mockingjay, a bird that could repeat any melody, whether human or bird. My father had been fond of mockingjays, and they, in turn, were fond of him. Anytime my father would sing, the mockingjays would respectfully fall silent. Once my father was done with his song, they would sing it back to him—every single verse. My father's voice was that beautiful—high and strong. Full of life and love.

I'm suddenly extremely grateful for this pin. It's like I have a piece of my father with me, protecting me as he always did.

"Thank you," I say. I'm being showered with gifts today. Cookies from Mr. Mellark, and now a pin from Madge. I didn't realize I was so popular.

Madge gives me a serious look. "You can win," she tells me. "I know you can."

Before I can reply, she kisses my cheek and then flounces out the door. I realize that Madge has really been my friend after all.

When my door opens again, I look up curiously. Who else would come? But when I see that it's Gale, I mentally scold myself for overlooking him. Of course he would come. When he simply holds out his arms to me, I don't hesitate to run into them. Gale is the one person with whom I've always been able to be myself around. We're so comfortable with each other, and I know that he understands me. So when I feel tears begin to prick in my eyes, I don't try so hard to bat them back.

Gale pulls back to look at me, holding me by my shoulders. His grey eyes are fervent and serious. "Listen," he says. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you've got to get your hands on a bow. That's you weapon."

I frown. "They don't always have bows."

It's true. One year the only weapons available were sharp, spiky, metal maces. We watched the tributes bludgeon each other to death.

"Then make one."

My frown deepens. Crafting a bow is tricky business and the times I've tried, they haven't turned out well. As if he knows what I'm thinking, Gale says, "A weak bow is better than no bow."

He takes a deep breath. "Listen Katniss, you've got a shot at winning this, alright? You're smart. You're quick. You're a hunter. You've killed before. This is no different."

"Yes it is," I argue. "I've killed _animals_, Gale. Not people."

"How different can it be?" Gale reiterates and a sick feeling develops in my stomach as I realize the truth of his words. If I can forget that they're human, it will be no different at all.

The Peacekeeper enters the room, and I know our time is up. Like with Prim and my mother, suddenly I'm almost frantic. "Don't let them starve!" I cry.

"I won't!" Gale promises as he clings to my hand, even though the Peacekeeper is pulling him back. "You know I won't! Remember Katniss, I—"

The door slams shut. I'll never know what he wanted me to remember. The thing is, I realize that it doesn't really matter. When that door shut, closing Gale off to me, I got the feeling that the action was much more metaphorical than literal. My life as I know it is over. Gale, Prim, my mother, hunting in the woods. . .all that is behind me and I am being thrown into an unknown world, completely blindfolded and terrified.

When the visiting hour is up, the Peacekeepers come in and escort me to a waiting car outside. Cameras flash repeatedly, almost blinding me, but I ignore them. I school my features into a blank mask and I'm very proud when I look up on one of the big screens and see that I almost look bored. Fantastic. I climb into the car to find that Peeta is already there in the backseat. When the car moves forward I'm momentarily struck by the sensation. I've never been in a car and have only ridden in a wagon a handful of times. I've always walked to wherever I needed to be.

I glance over at Peeta and see tear stains on his cheeks. He doesn't bother to hide them and it makes me wonder. Is this part of a strategy? To pretend to be weak and sniveling? It's worked before, particularly well for Johanna Mason from District 7. She played the part so well that everyone left her alone and then when there were only a few tributes left she morphed into a vicious killer. I look at Peeta again. I can't see how this strategy would work for him. He's simply too big, too strong to pull it off. That, and I know Peeta is smarter than to think that such a strategy would work for him. Peeta is a thinker, I know. This thought makes me uneasy. Smarts is a dangerous weapon.

We pull up to the train station and are hustled out of the car and onto the train. Once the doors shut the train takes off, and I'm unprepared for the sudden burst of motion. I stumble and then feel a pair of large, warm hands at my waist, steadying me. I jerk away and get my footing on my own before I turn to look at Peeta.

"I'm not going to hurt you, you know," he tells me so softly that I barely hear him. "You know me better than that."

I'm chagrinned because he's right. I do know him. I open my mouth to say something, but I'm cut off by Effie Trinket, who begins blabbing about the Capitol and how great it is as she leads us to our separate rooms. As we pass through the train, I take it all in. The train is much more extravagant than the room in the Justice Building. Everything seems to glow or sparkle or shine. All the fabric I see, curtains, carpets, tablecloths—I can almost smell the finery. It causes me to crinkle my nose.

My room consists of a bedroom and my own bathroom. Effie explains to me that everything is at my disposal, that I can do whatever I want. The dressers are stuffed with clothes just for me; I can wear whatever I like. I'm on my own free time until an hour from now when I'm supposed to go to the dining car for supper.

The first thing I do the moment Effie leaves is strip off my mother's blue dress and lay it on the bed. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the water in the shower. Hot water. We don't have hot water at home unless we boil it. The shower feels amazing. It's like I'm standing in the rain, though the water is warm. I experiment with the shampoos provided and find one that smells like vanilla. I've only ever smelt the aroma once before, but it's my favorite scent, aside from the freshness of the woods.

I probably stay in the shower too long, but the allure of hot running water causes me to stay under the spray. Eventually I step out and dry off. I find a pair of plain black pants and a forest green shirt in the dressers and pull them on. I towel dry my hair, but I don't braid it. The intricate braid my mother had put my hair up in had given me a headache, so I let it hang loose to my waist. I'm about to leave for the dining car when a glint of gold catches my eye. I recognize it as Madge's mockingjay pin, and I quickly take it up and pin it to my shirt. Against the dark green of my shirt, I could almost think that the bird was flying through the forest.

I meet Effie in the hallway on my way to the dining car and she escorts me the rest of the way. When we enter I see that it is just Peeta sitting at the table. The moment I walk in, his eyes come up to meet mine in that odd way of his. It kind of makes me uneasy how he always seems to know when I'm in the room. But then again, Peeta in general makes me uneasy so I don't let it worry me too much.

I take the seat next to him, and his eyes have yet to leave me. He's looking at me oddly, his mouth slightly open. "What?" I snap, a little more harshly than I'd intended.

A hint of a smile plays at Peeta's lips. "Your hair is down."

And?

He takes my silence as puzzlement, which I suppose I am.

"It looks nice," he compliments.

A warmth spreads across my cheeks and to my horror I realize it's a blush. Since when do I blush? When? Never. Until now. Just one more reason for me to feel uneasy about Peeta Mellark.

"Thanks," I say as I look down at my empty plate. I resolve to never wear my hair down in front of him again.

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie asks as she takes her seat.

Peeta shrugs. "Last time I saw him he said something about taking a nap."

"Well it's been an exhausting day," Effie says as if this makes sense.

The supper comes in courses. A rich soup. Salad. Lamb chops and mashed potatoes. Rolls abound. Fruit. Cheese. Chocolate cake. I'm stuffing my face, and I see that Peeta is doing the same. It's the richest food I've ever eaten, and I can't stop myself from shoveling it into my mouth.

"Well, at least you two have decent manners," Effie comments as we're about half way through the meal. "Last year they ate like animals, completely ignoring the silverware!" she says this as if it was one of the worst things her eyes have ever seen.

Last year's tributes were a pair of kids from the Seam who had never had enough to eat in their entire life. Of course they would have attacked this food. Table manners were far from their mind. Peeta's the son of a baker. My mother taught Prim and me to eat properly, so yes, I knew how to wield a fork. I silently fume the rest of the meal. Eventually, my ire at her comment overwhelms me, and I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers. When I'm done I wipe them on the tablecloth.

Effie purses her lips in distaste, but I see a small smile at my actions from Peeta.

I feel a hint of camaraderie budding between myself and Peeta and immediately squash it. We were about to enter the Games. Camaraderie isn't going to help me win. It would hinder me. I can't have that. I have to keep my promise to Prim.

Once the meal is over I start to feel sick. The richness of the food, combined with the amount I ate, isn't sitting well with my stomach that's hardly used to being full, let alone stuffed. Peeta is looking a little green too. I'm determined not to throw up though. If I can keep down Greasy Sae's more . . . creative . . . concoctions, then I can keep this down too.

Effie leads us over to the couch to watch the reapings from the other districts, and I'm surprised when Haymitch comes stumbling in. It looks like even with the nap, he's still drunk enough to be unable to walk a straight line. I shudder at the amount of liquor required to make him that intoxicated.

I sit down next to Peeta on the couch, though I make sure to leave lots of space between us. However, this plan is shot to hell when Haymitch collapses onto the couch on my other side. I choose the lesser of two evils and scoot closer to Peeta, getting as far away from Haymitch and the stench of white liquor and pour hygiene as possible.

I catalogue every tribute that I see. The reapings from 1 and 2 are extremely chaotic as everyone wants to volunteer. The kids from these districts think it's an honor to be chosen, and they fight for the right to represent their district. Eventually the District 1 tributes are chosen, but my focus is on District 2. A giant hulk of a boy practically runs up on the stage, and I know that he's trouble. He's simply too eager. I can tell that he's one of those who relishes killing. I can also tell that Peeta sees this too, because I feel him tense beside me. The reapings continue and there aren't that many tributes that I really take note of. There's a fox-faced girl from 5 who looks sly. She's a wild card. I take note of a crippled tribute from 10. The tributes from 11 stick out to me. The male tribute is even bigger than the District 2 tribute and he simply looks menacing. In perfect contrast is the girl tribute. She's twelve, a tiny thing. Curly brown hair and dark skin. Her demeanor and overall aura reminds me so much of Prim that my heart clenches.

Finally, they get to District 12. I see Prim's name being called and then suddenly I'm filling the screen, screaming that I volunteer. The desperation in my voice is plain. I watch as I'm led up on the stage and then Effie calls Peeta's name. What shocks me is the look on my face when I hear Peeta's name called. I hadn't thought I'd had much of a reaction but as I watch the screen I realize that I look. . .worried? Fearful?

Dread. That's my expression. Dread. Dread of facing Peeta Mellark in the arena.

I'm shocked at how quickly my eyes find him in the crowd and then how they never leave him. I've never seen such a complicated twist of emotion on my face. Peeta and I face each other, and we don't look anywhere other than the other's eyes. It makes us look like something we're not. It makes us look like we care for each other . . . in that way. In the way my mother cared for my father. In the way that my father cared for her in return.

What sinks the metaphorical ship is when we shake hands and don't let go. We turn to face the crowd as the anthem plays, hands grasped tightly, presenting a united front. I'm brought out of my thoughts when the commentator's speaking.

"Look at that!" one says, a male. "I wonder if they know each other."

His female co-commentator immediately pipes up. "Of course they do! Can't you see the way they're looking at each other? I'd say that they're more than friends!"

"It'll sure be interesting to see how this works out!" the male says. "Especially—"

The TV cuts to black and I see that Haymitch is the one who turned it off. He barks at Effie to leave, and she begins to protest, but Haymitch won't have any of it. "I'm the mentor, aren't I?" he asks as he shoves her out the door. "Go count your shoes!"

Once Effie is gone he turns back to us, looking surprisingly sober and serious. "Alright, you two, let's have it," he says.

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" he repeats. He points to the TV and I know what he's referring to. "That's what I mean? What are you two? Friends? Lovers? What?"

"We're nothing!" I blurt out before I can stop myself. Idiotically, I look at Peeta and see the hurt on his face. Why am I always hurting him? "I-I mean. . ." I don't know what to say. "We're . . . I'm . . . we're just . . . something!" I finally give in, tossing my hands up in the air. I didn't realize I'd jumped to my feet until they started moving toward the door. "I-I've got to go," I stutter before I flee from the compartment.

That night as I lay in the too comfortable Capitol bed, I try to sleep. The effort is proving to be futile. I couldn't get Haymitch's words out of my head. What were Peeta and I? Friends? Were we friends? I only had two friends, Madge and Gale, and I definitely didn't feel for Peeta anything remotely similar to what I felt for Madge, let alone Gale. What defined being friends anyway? I know that the other girls at school would probably define friendship as sharing your darkest secrets and talking about boys. Madge and I hardly talked, let alone share our secrets or talk about boys. And Gale. I was closer to Gale than I was with anyone other than Prim. I did share secrets with Gale, but I could never imagine talking to him about boys. Somehow I got the feeling that it wouldn't have gone over well. That, and the fact that me talking about boys would be pointless and a waste of breath. I didn't want a relationship. Relationships led to marriage and marriage led to kids. I didn't want that.

But I had to admit that I had a connection, one that baffled me profusely, to Peeta Mellark. It was the bread. It always went back to the bread. He'd saved my life. He'd taken care of me when no one else did, just by giving me that bread. I felt something for Peeta Mellark. It was undeniable.

I just had no idea what it was.

There is a clock next to my bed on a nightstand, and I see that it reads two o' clock in the morning. The bed suddenly feels confining, and I toss off the covers and grab the soft, fuzzy bathrobe that is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I slide into some shoes that feel more like socks and step out into the hallway. Technically, according to Effie, we're supposed to stay in our rooms until she comes to get us the next morning, but I've never really been one for rules so I didn't pay her any mind.

I make my way towards the dining car since it's the only other compartment that I know of aside from my own. The moment I walk through the door I feel his eyes on me. I look to my left and see Peeta, clad in a pair of loose-fitting grey pants and a thin, white t-shirt. He's sitting on a padded bench along a window. It's like a little alcove, and his back is resting against the small wall behind him while his legs are stretched out across the rest of the bench. His arms are crossed over his chest, and I can't help but notice the definition of his muscles, the thinness of his shirt doing nothing to hide them.

We both stare at each other for a long moment before Peeta looks away, staring out the window. I slowly approach him, like I might a frightened animal, until I'm standing in front of him. Wordlessly, he shifts his position so that his elbows are resting on his knees, giving me enough room to sit down. I do so, and mirror his position. This leaves us sitting across from each other, staring. Blue eyes meet grey.

I ask a question that's been bothering me ever since I left Peeta and Haymitch. "What did you say?" I ask. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. "To Haymitch, I mean."

Peeta's eyes narrow for a moment, and I regret my quick denial of any sort of relationship between us. Obviously we had one. . .whatever it was. I just didn't have a name for it.

He finally answers me. "I told him we were friends."

I nod. I can deal with that, I guess. "Cause we're definitely not lovers," I say. Wait, why did I say that? A feel a blush start to creep up my cheeks and quickly look out the window, hoping that the train is dark enough so Peeta doesn't see.

"Definitely not," he agrees and I can hear the smile in his tone.

"Wipe that smile off your face, Mellark," I snap and in response he laughs at me.

I scowl.

"Wipe that scowl off your face, Everdeen," he mocks me, which only causes my scowl to deepen and for him to laugh more.

We sit in silence for a moment more before Peeta speaks. "Is it so bad?" he asks me softly. "To be friends?"

The slight vulnerability in his tone causes me to look at him, and I can tell that my answer really matters to him. "No," I answer honestly. I decide in that moment that Peeta and I are friends, just a different type of friend—one that I didn't have a name for. Madge was my friend. Gale was my best friend. Peeta was my friend, but he didn't fit into any established category in my mind.

"But you're unlike any friend I have," I say before I can stop myself. I look at him, as if he can give me the answers I seek. He only looks at me curiously, and for some reason I find myself trying to explain it to him.

"You're not like Madge," I tell him. Well duh. Peeta's a guy and Madge is a girl. From the smile on his face, I can tell that he's thinking along the same lines. "I mean, we don't have the same relationship that I do with Madge."

"And Gale is my best friend," I go on. I notice that Peeta seems to be paying a little bit more attention now. He's eyes are sharper. "We talk about practically everything. I feel safe with him. I trust him."

I look at Peeta, knowing that I look as confused as I feel. "But you . . . you confuse me . . . how you make me feel confuses me. I don't understand. We hardly ever talk, but we seem to understand each other. You have that creepy way of always knowing when I'm in a room—" I'm interrupted by Peeta's laugh. "It's not funny! I can be completely silent and you still know I'm there!" I look out the window as his laughter fades. "I just don't know," I say softly as I look at the dark shapes whizzing by. "I just don't know."

The train suddenly begins to slow and for a moment I wonder if it's broken down. However, I see a fueling station through the window right as we come to a complete stop. I look at Peeta and see that a light as entered his eye. He has an idea.

"What?" I question, but he wordlessly gets up and motions for me to follow. I do because I'm curious.

He comes to a stop at a door and gives the handle a sharp tug, causing it to open. A cool night breeze blows wisps of hair into my face and I'm glad I put it in my signature single braid before getting into bed. Otherwise my hair would have been all in my face and I hate the feeling.

Peeta hops out of the train and then turns around to me, waiting for me to follow. I raise my eyebrows, but nonetheless make the small drop to the ground. Gravel crunches under my feet as I follow him a little ways. He finally stops and by now I know that my eyes are burning with curiosity as to why he's decided to leave the train.

"Just thought it'd be nice to escape for a little while," he says by way of explanation. "It's a nice night anyway."

I look up at the night sky. It is a nice night.

Peeta plops down on the ground, leaving me standing awkwardly, so I sit down next to him. We're quiet for a few moments until Peeta speaks. "Remember when I got into that fight with Maverick Dawes?"

In response to his words, my mind immediately flashes back one year ago to a bitter cold winter afternoon. The sun had been out and shining but it didn't do much to warm up the air. It had been a particularly harsh winter. Lots of snow and ice. It had made hunting difficult and had taken all of mine and Gale's combined efforts to scrape by.

This is the time of year when the girls from the Seam flock to Cray's doorstep, at least more than usual. Cray is the Head Peacekeeper of District 12 and it's a known fact that he'll give a girl a few coins if they'll slip into his bed. The likelihood that I would have been one of those desperate girls had I not known how to hunt would have been high.

However, Cray is not the only one that these girls can go to. More than one merchant will do the same.

The boy that Peeta is referring to, Maverick Dawes, is the epitome of an arrogant asshole. He's big and well muscled since his family sells grain. Tossing around sacks of grain made him strong, and it was a known fact that his family secretly siphons off a little extra grain. Not enough to tip off the Capitol, but just enough to make a difference. No one likes Maverick Dawes, especially Peeta.

Because Maverick's family has all the grain, and Peeta's family runs the bakery, this causes the two to meet far more often than they'd like. Maverick thinks that Peeta is a 'pretty boy' and Peeta thinks that Maverick is a . . . well . . . simply put I'd never heard so many curse words strung together to form one enormous insult.

It was on this day, a cold February afternoon, that their intense dislike of each other came to a head. I'd been walking towards the scraggly tree where I'd always wait for Prim when I'd heard yelling. I'd turned around toward the noise and to my surprise I'd found Peeta and Maverick in each other's faces. I was mainly surprised because I'd never seen Peeta show any emotion that wasn't positive. I'd never seen him mad and by the time I'd focused on their yelling match, I'd realized that Peeta was furious.

I caught random words like 'Seam' and 'whore' and quickly deduced that they were arguing about the girls from the Seam. Considering the time of the year, this really didn't shock me. What did was the fact that Peeta was defending the Seam. I'd known that he didn't see us as any different, but even I knew that it was social suicide to say so—for a merchant at least.

I remember hearing the name 'Everdeen' and that was when Peeta's fist collided with Maverick's face. After that the fight was on, though really it was an all-out brawl. Maverick was strong, but Peeta was too, not to mention faster and smarter. I think the fight lasted as long as it did only because Peeta was so mad he wasn't thinking about a quick pin like he would if it were a wrestling match. He was simply fighting.

Eventually, the teachers and some of the older boys broke them up. I'd never seen Coach Calvin so angry and he was known throughout the school as a hothead. He chewed out Peeta and Maverick so thoroughly that I was surprised their ears weren't bleeding.

By this time, the crowd had faded away, but I stayed where I was under that scraggly tree. I hadn't even noticed that Prim had come up beside me until she asked me when we were going home. I murmured a reply, my eyes never leaving Peeta as Coach Calvin finally finished berating him. Peeta was told to go home, but Coach Calvin took Maverick to the apothecary. It looked to me like he had a broken nose.

Peeta just stood there in the schoolyard, looking at the ground where the fight had taken place. I'd told Prim to stay by the tree and walked over to him. When I came up to him, he looked up at me and gave me a little smile. He hadn't gotten off too badly. He had a cut under his eye and I saw a spot on his cheek that looked like it'd bruise. Other than that he was fine.

"Why?" I'd asked. "Why would you do that?"

He'd looked at me, his blue eyes dancing in amusement. "Because it was the right thing to do."

"Getting into a fight?" I'd raised my eyebrows. "You never struck me as the violent type."

"I'm not." Peeta shrugged. "Usually."

We were quiet for a moment. Finally, I'd said. "Thanks. For sticking up for the Seam. I'm sure they appreciate it."

Peeta looked at me. "I didn't do it for them—not entirely."

I knew what he meant. He'd done it for me. He'd only swung at Maverick after he'd said my name.

Peeta began to walk away, and I knew I had to say something. "Peeta!"

He stopped and turned back to me, surprised. I was a little surprised myself. It was the first time I'd ever used his first name. I'd always call him by his last name, Mellark.

He continued to look at me, waiting for me to say something. I tried to think of anything to say because I knew I had to say something. I knew it was important, but I just told him, "thank you."

A smile had spread across his face. "You're welcome."

I pull out of the memory. It's been a long time since I thought about that day. "Yeah," I say softly. "I remember."

Peeta looks at me, as if I'm missing something important. The meaning of him asking me to remember that day. I ask him, "Why do you always look out for me?"

A chuckle escapes him. His eyes dance with a secret that I don't know. "Because—"

"Don't you say it's because it's the right thing to do," I interrupt and Peeta chuckles again.

"Because we're friends," he finishes. "That's what friends do."

Suddenly, Peeta looks up. "I think we better get back on board before they leave without us."

I laugh at the idea. "Effie wouldn't know what to do."

Peeta grins and offers me a hand. I debate ignoring it, but we're friends, right? So I take it and he pulls me up as if I weigh nothing. We hurry back onto the train and right as Peeta shuts the door we begin to move.

"I better get to bed," I say. "I don't know about you, but I need all the sleep I can get."

"Sounds like a good idea," Peeta agrees.

"Well, then, I'm just gonna, um, go," I stumble over my words, much to my irritation.

Peeta seems to be biting back a smile. "Okay then." He heads towards his compartment. "See you later."

"See you," I repeat before abruptly turning on my heel and heading back to my compartment. The moment I'm in my room I inhale quickly, as if I'd been holding my breath.

My conversation with Peeta outside is sinking in. Peeta is once again proving his goodness. I hate myself for letting my guard down. I have a weakness for good people, there are so few in the world. They tend to wind their way into my heart, and I can't afford to care about Peeta in any capacity. Even how I feel about him now, the confusing version of friends that we apparently are, it's too much.

Because we're both going into the arena.

There can be only one winner. And for me to keep my promise to Prim that means that Peeta must die. The thought causes an uncomfortable wrench in my chest that confuses me, but at this point I'm so used to being confused by all-things-Peeta that I pay it no mind.

My eyes somehow land on the brown paper bag. The frosted cookies Mr. Mellark gave me. I suddenly grab the bag, open my window, and throw them out. The moon peeks out behind the clouds to provide just enough light for me to see that the cookies land in a patch of dandelions.

It's almost as if Fate is trying to tell me something.

Too bad I don't believe in fate.

I resolve in that moment to distance myself from Peeta. I can't afford to care for him more than I already do. I have to dissolve this odd, unnamed, confusing friendship that we have.

I can only hope that with twenty-two other tributes in the arena, I won't be the one to have to kill him.

But then again, the odds have never seemed to be in my favor.

* * *

**And, drat. Katniss was making progress! But then again, with her, it's always one step forward, two steps back.**

**Never fear though, this resolve does not last for long! At all. Peeta is simply too irresistable. :D**

**Review?**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Oh, reviews! Glorious reviews! Again, You. Guys. Are. Epic. EPIC.**

**Seriously you guys, I'm doing a really embarrassing happy dance. It's quite said, a lot of disturbing flailing that I desperately hope people see as endearing...okay, moving on...**

**THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR ALL REVIEWS, FAVORITES, AND ALERTS! AH! THIS AWESOME!**

**Okay. I'm good now. Had to get that out of my system. Now, on to the chapter! Woo hoo! Opening ceremonies! **

**And, on a more serious note, I get a little more in depth with my version of Peeta's background, which consists of his mother's abuse. We really get to see some of that hidden darkness in him that makes me giggle in excitement (mainly when I think of my ideas for him in _Mockingjay_).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. They're just my puppet pals for a while, I swear!**

* * *

Chapter 3

When I wake up the next morning, I feel the missed hours of sleep in my bones. Stiffly, I maneuver out of bed and pull on the outfit that I'd worn last night on the train—the green shirt and black pants. I make sure that my mockingjay pin is still fixed to the shirt. I want my piece of home and the reminder of my father close to me at all times. It's quickly becoming much more than a simple token to me.

I enter the dining car and find that I'm the last one to arrive. Effie is passing me, heading to the table, a cup of what has to be black coffee in her hands. Coffee is a rarity in District 12, but whenever we have some my mother drinks it like she'll never drink it again. I don't see how. I can't stand the stuff. Too bitter.

Haymitch is sitting at the table across from Peeta, thinning a glass of red liquid with a bottle from his pocket. I have no doubt that he's diluting the inoffensive red liquid with alcohol. Can't he go five minutes without drinking? It couldn't be earlier than eight o' clock in the morning at the latest. This was ridiculous and yet the very reason why District 12 never won the Games. Some years, we would actually have a tribute that stood a better chance. However, because Haymitch is responsible for getting our tributes sponsors, the rich people who back the tributes, our tributes still wind up dying. Why? Because sponsors expect to deal with someone classier than Haymitch—preferably someone who's sober.

It's due to these thoughts that I take my seat next to Peeta with a scowl on my face. He raises his eyebrows in question, but I ignore him. I remember my realization from last night. I have to dissolve whatever kind of weird, funky friendship that I have with Peeta now, before the Games begin. It's simply easier that way, for everyone.

Eventually, the smells of the food laid out for breakfast breaks through my ire at Haymitch's uselessness, and the food quickly becomes my number one priority. I survey the table, and am shocked by how much food is available. Fruit. Rolls. Waffles. Muffins. My plate is already piled high with eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes. A tall, narrow glass of orange juice sits in front of me. At least, I'm fairly certain it's orange juice. I'd only ever had an orange once before, and it was given to me as a treat from my father on New Years.

I wonder what it must be like for those in the Capitol, to never have to worry about having enough food. Starvation must be a foreign concept.

I begin to eat, shoveling the food into my mouth, though I am more cognizant of the richness of the food this time around and force myself to hold back and not overindulge like I did last night. The last thing I need is another queasy stomach. By the time I'm finished, Haymitch and Peeta are still eating. Haymitch is in the process of spreading jam on a piece of toast, and Peeta is dipping bits of his roll into a brown, creamy liquid.

I look to my plate and see that a cup of the very same stuff is sitting right beside me. Peeta seems to notice my curiosity and explains to me. "They call it hot chocolate," he says. "It's good."

I take his word for it, and take a sip—which quickly evolves into another and another until I drain the cup. It is in this moment that I come to one conclusion. Hot chocolate is heavenly.

Peeta, as if reading my thoughts, grins. I almost grin back at him, but I stop myself. It is against my new edict.

He frowns, and I find myself fighting against mirroring the action. What is it with me wanting to mirror his facial expressions this morning? It's damn annoying.

In order to distract myself from Peeta and the confusion that perpetually surrounds him and clouds my mind, I look to Haymitch. I'm determined to get his help because I'm determined to try to keep my promise to Prim.

"So," I begin. "You're supposed to give us advice."

"Yeah, here's some advice." He's already beginning to slur his words a little, and I know he'll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol. "Stay alive," he says as if it's obvious and then bursts out laughing.

I exchange a look with Peeta, and his expression is consistent with the disgust I feel. Peeta's eyes harden as he looks back at Haymitch and my mind briefly flashes back to the day he fought with Maverick Dawes.

"That's very funny," Peeta says. Suddenly, in a move so quick that it takes me by surprise, Peeta lashes out and knocks Haymitch's glass of liquor out of his hand. The glass shatters and the blood-red liquid begins to seep into the carpet. "Only not to us."

Haymitch seems to contemplate this before he moves to backhand Peeta. To my amazement, Peeta doesn't flinch and catches Haymitch's wrist in his hand, only inches from his cheek. He and Haymitch hold a staring contest for a long moment, each of them glowering at each other, before Peeta shoves Haymitch's hand away.

It is only in this instant that I realize I had gripped my knife tightly, ready to come to Peeta's aid.

Haymitch is quiet for another moment before he huffs indifferently and reaches out toward his bottle of spirits that's sitting on the table. My own anger gets away from me and I stab the knife into the table, barely missing his fingers.

This prompts Haymitch's eyebrows to rise. "Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

He looks to Peeta. "Quick reflexes," he says.

Peeta's eyes are still narrowed, his expression stony. It unsettles me. This isn't the Peeta Mellark that I know. "I know when someone's going to hit me."

Haymitch gives Peeta a look, as if asking for him to elaborate, but Peeta remains poignantly silent. It's clear that the subject is closed.

Giving up, Haymitch looks to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife other than a table?"

I realize that this is my chance to prove to Haymitch that I can be a threat in these Games. The bow and arrow is my weapon, but I've thrown a few knives in my day, too. Sometimes it's safer when I've only wounded a kill to stick a knife in it before I approach it. I get a solid grip on the knife before giving it a flick and letting it fly. Ideally, I'd been hoping for a good stick. However, when the knife embeds itself firmly in between two panels across the room, it makes me look a whole hell of a lot better than I really am.

But I'm not about to voice that thought.

Haymitch's eyes narrow. "Stand up," he commands.

Peeta and I rise from the table and move to stand in the middle of the car. Haymitch circles us, prodding us every now and then, much to my annoyance. I hate the feeling of vulnerability that is slowly creeping into my blood. Haymitch's gaze is as sharp as a hawk and I feel like I'm the little, oblivious mouse scurrying along the ground. I feel like a piece of meat, and I resist the urge to shift closer to Peeta.

Wait, what?

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless," he finally pronounces. Oh, great. Brilliant, even. "Seem fit. And once your stylists get a hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

It's always been a given that the most attractive tributes get more sponsors.

"Alright," Haymitch says. "I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you." He gives Peeta and me a hard stare. "But you have to do exactly as I say."

Peeta glances down at me, as if to want my agreement before he gives his. I give him a very slight nod and Peeta's gaze returns to Haymitch. "Fine," he agrees for both of us.

I open my mouth to ask for advice about the Cornucopia, but Haymitch cuts me off. "Not here," he says, anticipating my words, which I don't like at all. "Later when we're settled." He looks between me and Peeta, his gaze lingers on Peeta the longest, but it flicks back to me at the last second. I don't know what he's trying to see. "And we'll need to have a little talk about what's going on between you two and how we're going to play it."

I frown and am confused by his words. There's nothing going on between Peeta and me. I thought we cleared that up last night. And what about 'how we're going to play it'? Play what?

I look up at Peeta to find that his lips have pursed into a thin line. He doesn't look happy at all.

"Now, we'll be at the Capitol in a little less than an hour," Haymitch says. "They'll take you to the Remake Center and hand you off to your stylists and prep teams. No matter what they do, don't resist. You won't like it, you'll probably hate it, but no matter what, don't resist."

"But—" I begin.

"No buts." Haymitch glares at us in turn, emphasizing the point. "Don't resist."

I give him a stiff nod and Haymitch turns to leave, presumably to resume his drinking in the bleakness of his own compartment. This leaves Peeta and me standing awkwardly in the middle of the dining car, and I immediately retreat to the couch. There is no point in going back to my compartment. According to Haymitch we are almost there.

I feel the couch sink beside me and know that Peeta has joined me. I curl my legs beneath myself, and lean an elbow on the arm of the couch, resting my head in my hand as I stare sightlessly at the wall. I can't help but glance at Peeta out of the corner of my eye. His arms are folded across his broad chest, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. However, it's his hard gaze that could metaphorically burn a hole into the coffee table in front of him that draws me up short. Peeta looks broody—an emotion I would have never associated with him.

"What's with you?" I ask bluntly.

Peeta glances up at me briefly before returning his gaze to the coffee table.

I huff in annoyance. I don't like this Peeta. This version annoys me more than his usual, amiable self. For as long as I've known Peeta, he has always been one of the kindest people I've ever come across. Very few have his innate goodness. I can count on one hand the times when I've ever seen him be anything other than his personable, kind, cheerful self.

The adventure at the breakfast table pops into my mind. I had never seen Peeta move so fast. I had no idea his reflexes were that quick. My sharp eyes hadn't been able to perceive that Haymitch was about to hit him, but Peeta had practically seen it coming. How?

"How'd you know Haymitch was going to hit you?"

This time, Peeta doesn't merely glance at me. He looks right at me for a long moment before looking back at the coffee table. "I know when someone's going to hit me," he says quietly. The same thing he told Haymitch. "You can see it. Their shoulders tense. A twitch. You can see the decision in their eyes."

It hits me all of a sudden that he's talking from personal experience. That cold night in the rain floods back to me, and I see his mother hit him. He'd known it was coming. I could tell. If he'd known it was coming, then that meant that it had happened before. All this time, it had never occurred to me that his mother had continued to abuse him. I began to wonder what it took to get her to lash out. Burned bread was a given. And I could only guess that there were endless things that could go wrong at a bakery.

A wave of anger swells within my chest as I realize how Peeta has silently suffered throughout the years. School days when he'd come to school with a bruise or a cut that he'd pass off as a fight with his brothers or a wrestling match run through my mind. I wonder how many of those stories had been lies, covering for what had really happened. Somehow, I knew that there were far more lies than truths. This realization angers me in a way that I can't accurately describe because I can't understand it myself.

I did know one thing, though. "Your mom's a bitch," I say flatly.

Peeta's silence momentarily causes me to think that I put my foot in my mouth, a habit that I admit to inadvertently flaunt sometimes. However, I see the corners of Peeta's lips begin to turn up before a mirthless chuckle escapes him.

"Yeah, she is," he agrees.

"What about your brothers?" I silently curse myself when he looks away from me. I shouldn't be pursuing the subject, but I am curious.

"It's no secret that after two boys, she was hoping for a girl." He looks up at me. "I may be able to frost cookies and cakes, but that's about as close to a girl as she got."

I frown at his statement. He hadn't answered my question directly, but I got the hint that his brothers had it much easier than he did. "I don't like you," I tell him, surprising myself. "Not like this. You're supposed to be the happy one."

This causes a genuine chuckle to escape him, and Peeta looks up at me in amusement. "I can't have layers?" he asks. "It's a lot to ask of a guy to be cheerful all the time."

"But you are happy, right?" I ask. This is important to me, for reasons that I don't understand. I look at him, wondering if any of the confusion I feel is showing on my face.

Peeta's face softens slightly, and I see the usual light in his blue eyes begin to dance like normal. "Yeah, I'm alright," he says. He pauses to glance pointedly around the train car. "Of course, I've been better," he says, referring to the Games.

We sit in silence for a while until a voice comes on the intercom and informs us that we'll be arriving in the Capitol in ten minutes. Nerves begin to tangle in my stomach and my eyes meet Peeta's. I see the same anxiousness mirrored in his gaze.

However, one thing is nagging at me from our previous conversation. "Peeta," I say, before stopping in shock. It's only the second time I've ever used his first name. I decide it must be because of the flashback last night, and continue on, though I see that Peeta is just as surprised as I am—and a little pleased.

I swallow. "You're really talented," I say. "With frosting the cakes, I mean." It was the truth. I'd never seen any cake look more lifelike than Peeta's.

"Thanks," he says, and I look down at my hands, feeling embarrassed by my admission. "Now if only the arena were a giant cake and I could frost everyone to death."

The unexpected scenario prompts a bewildered laugh to escape my lips.

"If only," I agree.

Out of nowhere, the train is suddenly plunged into darkness, and I realize that we're passing through the tunnels to get to the Capitol. We learn in school that the Capitol is located in a place that was once called the Rockies. The entire city is enclosed by the imposing mountains, providing a huge tactical advantage for them. During the Dark Days, it was nearly impossible to scale the mountains unnoticed. The Capitol's air forces used the rebels for target practice.

I can't help but shoot to my feet, as if to fight off the unexpected, suffocating blackness. The tons of rock enclosing me scares me, reminding me too much of my father's death. Peeta rises from the couch as well, and it's almost as if he's debating whether to edge closer to me, as if he could provide some comfort.

Luckily, he appears to decide against it.

The darkness goes on and on and at the very moment when I doubt whether I can stand it any longer, the train is flooded with bright light. Peeta and I can't help it. Our feet carry us to the window and we gaze upon the glory of the Capitol.

I've seen the Capitol on the television every year when they broadcast the Games, but to see it up close and personal is something else entirely. Bright, crystalline structures tower above the ground, reflecting rainbows of light. It's truly magnificent. Shiny cars move down the paved streets. There are tons of people milling about aimlessly, oddly dressed with crazy-colored hair and even crazier-colored eyes. All the colors are too harsh though. Some too bright. Some too deep. Some just plain painful to the eye.

As we pass through, the Capitol citizens realize that it's a tribute train and they immediately start waving and calling to us, much to my disgust. It's like they're waving us to our deaths. After all, we're only here for their entertainment, and of course, as punishment for the Dark Days that happened seventy four years ago.

So, naturally, I am completely astonished when Peeta begins to smile and wave right back at them. He sees me glaring at him like he's a traitor and as if to prove my accusation he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side.

"Smile and wave," he says out of the corner of his mouth. "One of them might be rich."

I knew that Peeta was smart, but I didn't know that he could think on his feet as fast as he apparently does. This is dangerous. Peeta is proving to be _very_ dangerous. I think back to the incident at breakfast. I think about his intelligence. And I think of how he's now waving and smiling—playing to the people. Peeta is working to win these Games.

However, I realize that he has a point and force myself to smile and pretend that the Capitol citizens aren't simply excited that two more tributes arrived in town, merely to get thrown into a formidable arena to fight to the death. I smile and hope that some of the people like me better than Peeta.

Effie joins us and she ushers us to the doors, fusing over our hair and appearance quickly. The moment the doors open, it's almost like she presents us to the crowd for an instant before Peacekeepers are suddenly at our sides and escorting us to a car. Reporters and cameras are everywhere, and I'm sure that the flashes from the cameras are going to blind me. There's so many people that even the Peacekeepers are getting jostled trying to keep everyone back and the entire situation has me on edge and adrenaline racing through my system.

Without thinking, I grab Peeta's hand and clutch it tightly. This only causes the reporters and the people to go berserk. I realize that all the yelling I'm hearing makes a sort of sense if I listen closely enough. They're shouting questions at us, the reporters at least. I hear my name a lot. Peeta's too.

Finally, we make it to the car and when the door is shut, Peeta and I simultaneously sink back into the seats and sigh in relief. Once the car starts moving I realize that Peeta's large, warm hand still encloses my own and I unceremoniously yank it back from him. He looks at me, obviously hurt by my actions, and I silently berate myself for being so blunt and socially inept.

"Sorry," I mumble, my lips moving without my permission, but I can't take the words back. I've always hated apologies.

Peeta offers me a small smile, and I know I'm forgiven. "I wish you'd just trust me," he says quietly, so that the driver and Effie up front can't hear.

My eyes meet his sharply. "We're going into the Games, Mellark," I say, my tone just as soft but clipped. "Trust is useless."

"Maybe." His eyes tell me he thinks different. His words prove it. "Maybe not."

I scowl, and glare at the headrest in front of me for the rest of the drive. We pull into an underground lot and Effie escorts us to the elevator where we go up to the fourth floor. She blabs about how we'll be beautified and made to look like we should. She just can't wait to see us when we're all done.

Once we walk in, we're swarmed. Strange people, people who must be our prep teams, surround us and begin pulling us in opposite directions. Three of them begin to lead me down the hall, while the other three remain with Peeta. I can vaguely hear them talking to me, gasping in horror at my eyebrows and my abhorrent lack of make-up. Then, they start to babble about what all they are going to do to me and my face drains of color.

I look back at Peeta, and I'm sure that my fear shows on my face because he immediately looks concerned, and offers me a small, reassuring smile.

It doesn't help.

Hours later, when I have had every hair ripped from my body except for my eyebrows and my head, my prep team greases me down with this special kind of oil. It stings at first, but then cools my skin that feels as if it's on fire. My hands finally unclench from the edges of the table, and I try to gain back some circulation. I try not to glare in Venia's direction. She's the one directly responsible for my current, practically hairless state.

My prep team is comprised of Venia, Flavius, and Octavia. Venia has aqua hair and gold tattoos over her eyebrows. She apologized profusely for her actions as she ripped the hair from my legs, arms, underarms, and torso. "Sorry!" she'd say. "But you're just so hairy!"

Octavia was a plump woman whose body was dyed a light pea green. She had been responsible for buffing and evening out my nails to symmetrical perfection, while Flavius with his orange ringlets and purple lipstick, which he seemed to constantly reapply, appeared to be the head of the group, constantly pointing out what still needed to be done and working around Venia and Octavia.

Finally, they deem me worthy enough, and leave to call in Cinna, my stylist.

I stand in the empty room and breathe a sigh of relief. My new skin that was not only plucked like a turkey, but washed down so thoroughly that I had to be not only ridded of dirt, but a few layers of skin as well, is still slightly sore and feels odd against the cool air of the room. I glance at the table on which I had silently suffered my torture, just as Haymitch had ordered, and debate putting on the thin robe that laid there. I had been allowed to wear it on and off throughout the hours long process. After a few moments of thought, I decided to just leave it there.

So I stood there stark naked in the lonely, cold room, waiting to be judged by yet another Capitol wannabe.

Imagine my surprise when Cinna walked into the room looking practically normal. His skin was dark, and his hair appeared to be its natural shade of brown, cut close to his head. Practical. His clothes were plain—black button down shirt and black pants—simple. The only thing that stood out, hinting at his Capitol origins, was the metallic-gold eyeliner, meticulously applied. I couldn't deny that it did look good on him though, serving its function and bringing out the gold flecks in his green eyes.

Cinna was definitely not what I was expecting.

"Hello," I say cautiously.

"Just give me a minute, alright?" he asks.

I stand still, resisting the urge to cover my chest as Cinna circles me appraisingly. When he's done, he hands me the robe, and I put it back on as quickly as I can without being completely obvious about it.

"Who did you hair?" Cinna looks at me curiously. "At the reaping, I couldn't help but notice. It was almost perfectly symmetrical to your face. Whoever did it had talented fingers."

His words cause a little burst of pride to shoot through me. "My mother."

Cinna smiles and nods slightly. "I see."

"You're new," I say. I haven't seen him around before. Some of the other stylists have been here for as long as I can remember, and I'm sure I would have noticed Cinna—young and the only normal looking one of the bunch. "I haven't seen you around."

"This is my first Games," he admits, confirming my suspicions.

"So they gave you District 12."

"I asked for District 12," he corrects but says no more on the subject. Instead, he gestures to a small sofa along the wall in the corner of the room. "How about some lunch?"

I take a seat, and feel myself sink down a few inches, the plush material leaving me feeling as though it will swallow me whole. Cinna takes a seat on the small couch facing me and presses a button on a side table. The action causes the floor to open up and a table laden with food rises from its depths.

I can't help but admire and detest the food at the same time. All the food, covering the entire table in heaps smells heavenly and looks just as good. There's chicken sitting on a bed of white rice, a creamy sauce poured over it, along with various vegetables. A large basket of rolls acts as a center piece on the table. Surrounding it are what appear to be little snacks. Fruit and cookies. Dessert appears to be a honey-colored pudding. It's all wonderful and without a doubt one of the best meals I will ever eat.

And I hate it. All of this food, so easily available to the people here. They don't know what it's like to starve, to slowly die in one of the worst ways possible. They don't know what it's like to simply want. The Capitol wants for nothing. They're so spoiled. So disgusting. They wouldn't last a day in the real world, away from the fantasy of the Capitol.

"How despicable we must seem to you," Cinna suddenly speaks, as if he'd heard my thoughts. They must have shown on my face.

"No matter," he continues after a beat of silence. "My partner, Portia, is your fellow tribute's stylist, Peeta. Our thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," he tells me. "And as you know they must reflect your district."

Oh, don't I know _that_. All the tributes dress up in something that reflects their district for opening ceremonies, which consists of a parade through the city. Each group of tributes gets their own respective horse-drawn chariots. The parade ends at the front gates of the President's mansion.

District 12 mines coal, and therefore almost every year without fail we have our tributes dressed in some skimpy or baggy coal miner's get-up with headlamps. Or, occasionally, they've ended up naked covered in black dust, supposedly coal dust.

"Anyway, Portia and I were thinking of going a little different route this year," Cinna says.

_Oh, great_, I think. _I'll be naked._

"No coal miner's outfit?" I ask.

"I think that the coal mining aspect of District 12 has been overdone, and Portia agrees with me. Our job is to make you and Peeta unforgettable, and to do that we need a new look." Cinna looks at me, an excited smile beginning to brighten his face. "We're going to focus more on the coal itself."

I frown, not comprehending.

A smile lights Cinna's face. "How do you feel about fire, Katniss?"

* * *

I accept my conclusion that underneath his cool, calm exterior, Cinna is manically insane.

A black unitard covers me from my feet to my neck. Leather boots that lace up to my knees complete the seemingly bland look. However, a cape of red, orange, and yellow hangs down my back. My hair, done in its signature single braid, is adorned with a headdress.

Cinna wants to light the cape and headdress on fire.

I will either go down in history as wearing the ultimate costume for opening ceremonies, or be the first tribute to die before even entering the arena.

I'm sure that would accomplish Cinna's goal of making me memorable either way.

"It's not real fire," he assures me, though it does nothing to appease my nerves. "I want the Capitol to recognize you when you're in the arena," he says dreamily. "Katniss, the girl who was on fire."

_Yeah_, I think. _Katniss, the girl who was on fire and was burned to a crisp._

However daunting my earlier revelations were about Peeta, I can't help the relief that floods through me when I see him walking towards me. I can't tell that his prep team has done much to him. His long, curly blonde hair has been trimmed some, but it still hangs over his forehead. His skin seems to have a glow about it, but other than that he just looks like Peeta. It makes sense. Peeta is handsome with or without the prep team or stylist.

He gives me a smile. Portia and his prep team immediately flock to Cinna and my own prep team and together they gush excitedly about how lovely Peeta and I look. Cinna, however, remains calm, wearily accepting their praise.

Soon we're taken to the lowest ground level of the Remake Center, which is where all the chariots are waiting to carry us through the Capitol. Cinna leads us to our chariot. The horses pulling the chariot are appropriately coal black, and are so well trained that they don't need anyone to guide them.

Peeta and I step onto the chariot while Portia and Cinna arrange our body positions and make sure that our capes are where they want them to be. I glance up at Peeta and see that he looks just as nervous as I do, especially when we overhear Cinna saying something about getting ready to light us up.

"What do you think?" I ask quietly. "About the fire?"

"I'll pull your cape off, if you pull off mine," he says through gritted teeth.

"Deal," I promise and he gives me a small smile in return. "I know that Haymitch said to do whatever they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

Peeta glances around. "Where is he anyway? Isn't he supposed to be here?"

I smirk. "I don't think it would be advisable for him to be around an open flame."

A burst of laughter echoes from both of us. We're both so nervous; it's causing us to act ridiculous. After all, in mere minutes, we're going to be turned in to human torches. Life's great.

All too soon, the chariots begin to move and our silly laughter is stifled and replaced with dread. District 1 goes by, their tributes gorgeously dressed in tasteful togas studded with jewels. District 1 makes the luxury items for the Capitol. Jewelry. Diamonds. The works. They're always favorites.

District 2 is next and pretty soon we're at the entrance of the tunnel. I can see the crowd even if they can't see me yet. More so is the fact that I can _hear_ them. They're screaming up a storm, and I can barely hear my own thoughts.

Cinna appears with a lighted torch and I stiffen. He lights my cape on fire and I squeeze my eyes shut, ready to feel the fiery flames of death—only the pain I'm expecting never comes. Instead, I get a slight tingling feeling. I hesitantly open my eyes to see that Peeta his grinning at me. He's on fire too, and he looks dazzling. That's when I realize that I must look dazzling as well.

He's looking into my eyes in that way he has sometimes. I feel a flurry of feeling in my stomach that's not nervous nerves, but nerves of a different kind. I can't define them. I feel a heat on my cheeks, and realize that I'm blushing again. Damn it. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm sixteen years old, and I do _not_ blush.

And yet I can't seem to draw my gaze from his.

Our chariot begins to move and Cinna's voice causes us to look away from each other. Cinna is yelling at us, I can tell, but I can't hear him over the roar of the crowd. He's making a gesture, and I look up at Peeta.

"What do you think he wants?"

Peeta looks down at me. "I think he wants us to hold hands."

I'm hesitant at this idea, but Peeta seizes my hand in his anyway. I don't bother to yank it back because we're out of the tunnel now, and the people are going crazy for us. Immediately, all eyes are on us and they're shouting our names. Chants of 'Katniss' echo around me. I glance at Peeta, taking my cue from him. He's much better at winning over a crowd than I am. He's smiling and waving like he was on the train, and I mimic him.

The heady feeling of the excitement in the air begins to get to me and my smiles become more genuine. I'm waving at the people with a confidence I've never felt. I feel like I've got the people of the Capitol eating out of my hand. And I do.

Because I'm the girl on fire.

Pretty soon, I'm blowing kisses at the crowd and they're stumbling over themselves to claim them. Everyone wants my kisses. Someone throws me a rose and I manage to catch it. I make a big show of smelling the flower, and then give a bright smile and a gleeful wave at the direction from which it came.

I glance up at Peeta, and we both share a big smile. Suddenly, he lifts our joined hands in the air and the crowd, unbelievably, overflows in a chaotic state of glee. They're screaming our names and a chant of '12' has begun to reverberate through the air.

When we finally come to a stop at the City Circle in front of President Snow's mansion, I realize that I must be cutting off the circulation in Peeta's hand. It was my lifeline, my rock the entire ride, and I try to loosen my grasp, but he stubbornly refuses and grips my hand tighter.

"Please," he says. "Don't let go. I might fall out of this thing."

I try not to frown because I know that with the splash we made, I'm probably on camera this very second. So I merely smile and nod. "Okay."

The President appears then, stepping out onto a balcony. He's a short, slim man with wispy white hair—seemingly insignificant and nonthreatening—but he's always managed to give me the creeps.

He launches into the speech that he gives every year, but I don't pay much attention. It's usual practice to focus on the tribute's faces during the speech and I can't help but notice that Peeta and I get more than our share of face time. More than the others. Cinna truly did a brilliant job. The darker it gets, the harder it is to ignore the flickering flames that surround us.

Eventually, the chariots begin to move once more, making a round of the City Circle again before disappearing into the bottom of the Training Center where we tributes will reside until the Games begin.

As I suspected, when we finally step off our chariot and Portia extinguishes our flames with spray from a canister, I see that the other tributes and stylists are glaring at us. Good. They know that District 12 won't be forgotten and set aside this year. I'm still feeling pretty good until I catch sight of District 2.

Their male tribute, the big blonde one that gave me the creeps when we watched the reapings, is glaring at me with a ferocity that few possess. Unconsciously, my hand tightens around Peeta's and I take a small, involuntary step toward him. This, of course, does not go unnoticed by Peeta, and he immediately looks to see what has caused my alarm. He tenses when he sees District 2's gaze. However, what surprises me is the glare that Peeta sends right back at District 2. Peeta almost looks . . . frightening. His blue eyes are ice, his expression hard as stone. He and District 2 continue to glare at each other for another second before District 2 suddenly grins.

Peeta's hand tightens around mine. "Let's go," he says softly and tugs on my hand, moving to follow Cinna and Portia.

After we're out of sight, he glances down at me. "I can't feel my hand."

"Oh, sorry." I immediately let go and feel the blood rush into my hand. "Me either," I mutter.

Peeta tries to smile a little, but I can tell that he's worrying about the boy from 2. "Don't worry about him," I say quietly.

"He's has you in his sights," Peeta replies, still worried.

A feeling of dread threatens to swallow me as I think of having the boy from District 2 out to get me personally, but I refuse to let it get to me. Instead, I try to make light of the situation. "After that look you gave him?" I question. "I doubt it. Where did you learn to glare like that anyway?"

Peeta shrugs and looks at me, a soft light entering his eye. "Got to have the right motivation, I guess."

Before I can ponder these words, Peeta stops and then he sends me a smile that's so sweet and shy that it causes me to feel that fluttery feeling in my stomach, again. "You should wear flames more often," he compliments me. "They look good on you."

An automatic smile stretches across my face, and in response he smiles bigger and gives me a playful nudge with his shoulder. I shove him back, and he makes a show of stumbling a little, chuckling all the while.

It's not until we reach the elevator to take us to our suite do I realize that my plan to dissolve my friendship with Peeta has so far been an epic fail.

* * *

**Ah, Katniss, Katniss, of course your plan has been an epic fail! It's Peeta. Come on, you've got to see how loveable he is, right? Why must you be so emotionally confused?**

**Don't worry. I plan to help you with that.**

**And now that I've actually typed out a conversation with a ficitional character, I think it would be healthy for me to talk to real people. So, you guys like the chapter? This chapter shows Peeta as dark as he's going to get in this story. Don't get me started on_ Mockingjay_, because oh, the glorious plans I have for Peeta. Glorious! I'm going to delve, _delve_ into his hijacking. I can't stop giggling just thinking about it . . . **

**Okay, moving on. So yeah, that was my Peeta being very sexy, if I do say so myself. I mean, what's sexier than a guy, who you _know_ is a total sweetheart, glaring menacingly at someone who wants to kill you? I mean, doesn't that make you feel all fuzzy inside? Or is that just me? **

**I'll see you guys Saturday! :D**

**Review? Pretty please with a strawberry on top cause I'm weird like that?**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, I know that I've said this every chapter, but YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME! I cannot express how freaking _giddy_ I am that you guys are likin' the story. That, and I'm thrilled that you guys like the changes I've made to Peeta, because that was my main worry. So I'm glad everyone likes a sexy, protective Peeta but seriously, what's not to like? :D**

**In this chapter, we get to see a really, really adorable Peeta. You know that look guys get when they see something cool and shiny? Yeah, picture that look on Peeta's face. Adorable, isn't he? :D**

**And I've decided to return to my random disclaimers that I started when writing my Buffy fics. They're ridiculously stupid and will make you question my sanity, but it's fun for me to come up with crazy random things. So this chapter's disclaimer will have 4 random things, and then I'll add one each chapter.**

**_Random_ Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 4

I glance up at Peeta out of the corner of my eye as Effie presses the button in the elevator for the twelfth floor. What am I doing? I am doing the exact opposite of what I had planned, that's what. My plan to dissolve my friendship with Peeta is a sinking ship. Scratch that, the metaphorical ship has burst into flames.

It has to be because he gave me the bread.

I just can't seem to shut him out. What is it about Peeta that makes me so. . .open? That's it. There is something about Peeta that breaks through all of my carefully contrived and constructed emotional walls. Maybe it is his innate goodness. Maybe it is his genuine kindness. Maybe it is his eyes. There's something about those summer sky blues that puts me at ease.

When I'm with Peeta the world doesn't seem so bad. I think about the reaping, how I felt as though as long as I held his hand, I would get through it. Peeta is a rock, steady and unchanging—dependable. I remember when we had stepped off the train this morning in the Capitol, how I had taken his hand again without thinking, needing it to anchor me. And then again tonight during the parade, I had his hand in a vice-like grip because underneath the excitement the atmosphere inspired within me, deep down I had been terrified of the people who cheered for my impending doom.

But Peeta had been with me, and that had somehow made it bearable.

I frown. I'm beginning to depend on Peeta Mellark. This is not good. This is very, very bad. Dangerous. How do I know that this is not all a part of an elaborate scheme? Peeta is smart enough to come up with it and a talented enough liar to pull it off. Peeta's charm combined with his honey-coated words makes even the most ridiculous lies seem true.

Is this all a plot? Have the Games already begun for Peeta? If anyone can play head games it's him. . . no one could be more naturally adept.

An uncomfortable feeling stirs within me, like my body is physically rejecting the idea that Peeta would play me like this. It's not in his nature. This is the boy who gave me the bread. . .

But doesn't Peeta want to live? If he does that means that all the tributes, including me, have to die. I think of what he's said to me since the reaping. He wishes that I would trust him. He said that he won't hurt me.

And I idiotically believe him.

My thoughts are interrupted when the elevator doors open, and as Effie babbles I realize that she's been talking all the while I've been silently contemplating. I pick up on the tail end of her prattle, ". . .and that's when I told them, and this was very clever of me, that if you put pressure on coal it turns into pearls!"

I press my lips together tightly to keep from laughing. I'm pretty sure that Effie meant that coal could turn into diamonds, which I'm not even sure about because I've heard about a machine in District 1 that can turn graphite into diamonds. I wonder if anyone in the Capitol would even know the difference.

Peeta, amazingly, stays straight faced and miraculously manages to show a little hint of admiration as he congratulates Effie on her wit. Effie, of course, is thrilled and continues to talk as she escorts us to our rooms. She leaves us at the door, telling us that dinner will be served in an half an hour and that we can discover the delights of our personal rooms ourselves.

The moment she leaves I turn to Peeta. "Do you ever wonder what goes on in her head?" I ask.

"Let's not even go there," Peeta shakes his head, muttering something about pearls, and I can't help but laugh.

I open the door to my room and take it all in. It's just as plush and exquisite as the train. "Oh, cool," Peeta says as he steps by me and goes over to the wall. He looks at what appears to be a small microphone in the wall. I come over to stand next to him, curious about what has him so excited.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Cheese buns."

I frown. "What did you say?"

"Cheese buns!" Peeta looks at me excitedly and then back at the wall where a little alcove is carved out.

And then two cheese buns appear on a tray.

Peeta picks up the cheese buns and holds them up to his face. "This is so weird," he says wide-eyed and I can't help but laugh. "But awesome." He turns to me. "Did you see it?" I can't help but think that he looks like a little kid in this moment. "They just. . .appeared."

His eyes dart back to the microphone. "I wonder. . ." he trails off before opening his mouth to order something else, but I stop him by clamping my hand over his mouth.

It's odd how my first thought is how his lips, warm and soft, feel under my fingers. Peeta is looking at me in a way that he never has before, and I see his blue eyes have darkened slightly. Thinking I've made him mad I say, "Sorry, but we should probably leave that alone. Dinner is in less than an hour."

I realize that my fingers are still over his lips and remove them quickly, a traitorous blush spreading across my face.

I turn away from him as I say, "Eat your bread."

Something hits me softly in the back of the head and I whirl around to catch it before it falls to the ground. "That was impressive," Peeta grins as I see that it was the second cheese bun he threw at me. "Share?" he suggests.

"Sure," I say before pinching off a large piece. Cheese buns are my favorite. I can't resist.

While I'm eating, Peeta wonders around my room. When I look up, I see that he has a remote in his hand. "Wonder what this does," he says before randomly pressing a button.

Immediately the large window that spans the entire wall zooms in to the people of the Capitol walking along the street. "Okay, that's kinda creepy," Peeta says before pressing another button.

Suddenly, my window is a forest. I can't stop myself from reaching out to touch it, and I feel disappointed when my fingers come into contact with the glass. It looks so real, like I could just walk into the woods. I don't know whether I like the forest window or not. While the familiar sight relaxes me, it reminds me of home and how I'll most likely never see my family again.

Peeta, as if somehow sensing my internal debate, says, "You can mess with it later." He clicks a button and the window returns to normal.

"Yeah," I mumble before finishing off the cheese bun.

Peeta takes a bite of his own cheese bun and pauses, seeming to ponder the taste. He's silent for a moment. "They're okay," he finally concedes.

I laugh. "I'm sure that the Capitol is glad to have your opinion."

"They should be."

Peeta takes another bite and wonders into my bathroom. "Oh, wow," he says, his voice echoing off the walls. "Katniss, come check this out!"

I roll my eyes, but his childish excitement puts a small smile on my face without my permission. I walk into the bathroom, momentarily stunned by its grandeur. Hard, smooth tiles adorn the floor and the walls. A large mirror hangs over an equally large countertop with two sinks, one on each end. A huge tub that could fit at least three comfortably sits against the left wall and in the far back of the room is what appears to be a shower.

Peeta, at this point, is standing in my shower, looking over the buttons that adorn the shower wall. There have to be at least a hundred. There's no door to the shower, just a six inch lip around the bottom to keep water from seeping out over the rest of the floor. I step into the shower and together we stare at the multitude of buttons. Peeta lifts a finger towards one and I say, "Don't you dare press that button."

He grins sheepishly at me. "That probably wouldn't be a good idea."

I shake my head.

Peeta looks back at the wall of buttons. "I wonder what button even turns it on."

"I haven't a clue," I tell him honestly. "Maybe the big red one?"

"Maybe."

Suddenly, there's a knock on my door. Peeta and I freeze. "Katniss!" Effie hollers. "Dinner in ten!"

I hear the sound of her high heels clicking away back down the hall and let out a breath. I laugh a little and look up at Peeta, "Can you imagine her reaction if she walked in on us and found us fooling around in the shower?"

Peeta turns beet red and begins to laugh hysterically.

"What?" I ask confused. Peeta continues to laugh. "What did I say?" I'm beginning to get angry with him.

Peeta gasps and tries to explain between bouts of chuckles. ". . . fooling around . . . in the shower . . . Effie . . . walking in on us . . ." He succumbs to another round of laughter.

I feel my face heat up with what has to be the biggest, brightest, reddest blush in the history of blushes. I realize how my words were construed. 'Fooling around' was another way to say that we were having . . .

Peeta sees the horror on my face and it only causes him to laugh harder. Despite it all, I feel myself begin to laugh with him. By this point, Peeta has sunk down to the shower floor, leaning his back against the wall for support as his chest shakes with his laughter and pretty soon I've joined him.

I think more than anything we just need a reason to laugh, and I inadvertently, embarrassingly, provided us with an adequate reason. All the pressure we are under, the threat of the Games hovering over us, the near certainty of our impending demise yeah, we need a reason to laugh.

Finally, we get our laughter under control. I look over to Peeta. "I didn't mean it like that."

A chuckle escapes Peeta. "I know. But it's still funny."

I reach out and punch him in the shoulder. "You shouldn't be so perverted."

Peeta looks at me blankly. "I'm sixteen with two older brothers. I can't help it."

He did have a point.

"We should probably get out of the shower," I say after a moment.

"Before Effie comes in and finds us," Peeta doesn't hesitate to add with a smile. He hops to his feet and takes my hand, pulling me up with ease.

The feel of his hand enclosing mine sends a tingly sensation shooting up my arm that seems to pool into a warmth in my chest. I've never held hands with Peeta before without a real reason. Before, it was always about _needing_ his hand in mine, as an anchor, a lifeline, a steadying presence. But at the moment I don't feel any of those pressures. It's just me and Peeta. It suddenly hits me that I like holding his hand. I _want _to.

Damn these foreign feelings. They are giving me a headache. Why does Peeta have to make everything complicated? I decide that perhaps, in order to squash these awkward, new, unnamed feelings, I need to shy away from any contact with Peeta.

It occurs to me that I've basically already tried to do this, and quite obviously, have failed miserably.

But I'm stubborn and I'm going try again anyway.

However, this time I'm determined not to hurt his feelings, and I gently remove my hand from his. He doesn't even seem to notice and I'm glad. He turns to me when we reach the door. "We should probably just head to dinner," he says. "It's been about ten minutes."

I nod, but don't say anything and follow him out into the main room. Waiting for us at the table are Haymitch, Effie, Portia, and Cinna. Two others in white uniforms stand silently by the food, and I guess that they're going to act as waiters.

Peeta and I take our seats and the food is immediately served. A soup is served first, followed by a salad. They have the most delicious cheese I've ever tasted and the sweetest blue grapes. For the most part, I focus on my meal, but I'm alert enough to see that Haymitch must have some sort of stylist because he's dressed and groomed and overall looks surprisingly sober and put together. He appears to be keeping his promise to us.

I'm glad that Cinna and Portia have joined us. They've already proven that they're invaluable due to mine and Peeta's fiery entrance in the opening ceremonies. I'm sure that any other ideas they have will be just as brilliant so I see no reason why they shouldn't be in on our strategies—whatever they are.

I take a sip of my wine, but immediately set it down when I begin to feel a fogginess in my head. I've only drunk half a glass, but apparently it's enough. I can't see how Haymitch deals with this feeling. I switch to a glass of water.

Once we're finished with the main meal, the red-haired girl, one of the two people who have been serving us, comes out with a large cake that she then deftly lights on fire. I watch it go up in flames in surprise and awe. The flames quickly flicker out, but nonetheless it was a neat display. However, a seed of doubt is planted in my mind. "What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?" I ask, looking up at the girl. "Cause if it is—oh! I know you!"

Now that I've said it, I know it's true. I simply can't remember a name or a time. A swirling pit of unease and guilt begins to coil in my stomach and I realize that it's not a good memory. Add to that the brief flicker of consternation that crosses her expression before she adamantly shakes her head in the negative only adds to the guilt. But I know that I know her from somewhere. The red hair, the porcelain skin, the striking features. . .

When I look back at the table, four adults are watching me like hawks.

Effie is the first to break the awkward silence. "You must be mistaken, Katniss," she says sharply. "The thought of you even knowing an Avox," she scoffs. "Preposterous."

"What's an Avox?" I ask naively.

"Someone who committed a crime," Haymitch explains, looking at me seriously—warningly. "They cut her tongue so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort. It's unlikely you know her."

_Traitors._

It all clicks in my head then. I remember her.

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," Effie explains pointedly. "Of course, you don't really know her."

_But I do_, I think.

However, that's not what I say. "No, I guess not," I say, scrambling for some plausible explanation. "I just—" I stammer stupidly, the wine not helping my efforts at all.

Suddenly, Peeta snaps his fingers. "Delly Cartwright," he says. "She's a dead ringer for Delly. I knew she looked familiar."

I try not to give his lie away. Delly Cartwright doesn't look a thing like the red-haired Avox, but that's not the point. The point is that Peeta is giving me a way out, covering for me.

"Yeah," I agree. "It must be the eyes."

"Hair too," Peeta pipes up.

"Oh, well, if that's what it is," Cinna says, the atmosphere at the table immediately relaxing. "To answer your question, yes, it was spirits that caused it to burn, but the flame burned up all the alcohol. I ordered it especially in honor of your own fiery debut."

We eat the cake, and then move into the sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies. When Peeta and I emerge from the tunnel of the Remake Center, there's a chorus of 'ahhs' in admiration. I can hardly believe that it is me I am seeing on the screen. I look truly dazzling. Like myself and yet nothing like myself. Peeta looks just as dazzling, but I realize that even though individually we look beautiful, if you take a step back and simply look at us together, we're stunning.

"Who's idea was it for you to hold hands?" Haymitch asks, looking at us.

"It was Cinna's," I answer, looking to my stylist, who merely shrugs.

"I figured that it would be wise to keep it up, the hand-holding," he explains. "They held hands at the reaping and then again when they arrived here off the train."

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," Haymitch nods approvingly.

Rebellion? I look back at the television and the tributes. They're acting like the other doesn't even exist. They stand stiffly, as far apart from each other as possible. I see what Haymitch is saying. Peeta and I have stuck together, a united image. This separates from the rest. This is a good thing, an advantage. We're becoming even more memorable.

When the commentators begin to speak, everyone listens to what they have to say.

"Well, I must say, District 12 made an entrance that will not soon be forgotten!" the male commentator says excitedly. He has green hair and disturbingly purple eyes. "Hats off to their stylists!"

"I'll tell you what I'm _really_ wanting to know," the female commentator says slyly. Her too red lips are smirking mischievously. "I'm wondering what's going on between the tributes Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen! They certainly seem friendly!"

"I'm sure the rest of Panem is dying to know as well." The man's purple eyes are filled with excitement. "Cause I must say, that Peeta Mellark is quite the looker!"

Peeta's face screws up in a grimace. "That's disturbing."

"And Katniss is a cute little thing!" his co-host adds. "We'll just have to wait and see! Maybe they'll give us a clue as to where their relationship stands—"

Haymitch suddenly turns off the television and focuses his gaze on us. I'm, however, still hung up on the commentator's words. "Cute?" I repeat. I look up at Peeta. "I am not a _cute little thing_," I growl, daring him to deny it.

Peeta wisely doesn't tell me otherwise, though I think I see his lips twitch as if he's fighting not to smile.

"Alright." Haymitch's voice causes both me and Peeta to bring our attention to him. "What's going on with you two? Seriously. No lies."

"We're friends," Peeta answers casually.

Portia raises her eyebrows, looking between us. "Just friends?"

I glare at her. "Just friends," I repeat.

Haymitch looks at us for a long time before seeming to come to a decision. "Okay then, if you two are 'just friends', here's how we're going to have to play it," he begins. "You two need to stick together. When training starts tomorrow, go through everything together. Never leave each other's side. And while you're training drop a few hints every now and then that you two might be something more."

"What?" I ask, immensely uncomfortable with what he's suggesting. "Like lovers?"

"Well you don't have to go that far," Haymitch says slowly, "but it would actually be better if you did."

"No way!" I argue. "I'm not doing it!"

"Listen, sweetheart, you and the kid have got the Capitol all riled up," Haymitch says bluntly. "Those looks you were giving each other at the reaping, the hand holding, you've got them excited. You're getting thrown into the arena where everyone is supposed to be against each other, but you two are sticking together. You're _friends_. It's new and new is exciting. New is interesting. They've got their eyes on you and we need to keep their attention."

"Hinting at something more in your relationship will keep them on their toes," Haymitch continues. "If you two play this right, you can build the suspense so when—"

Haymitch suddenly stops himself and glances at Peeta only briefly before looking back at both of us. "You've got an angle here, sweetheart, an angle that sets you apart from the rest. If you want to live you'd be a fool not to play it."

"Katniss," Cinna says my name softly, calmly. "Love, even the love between friends, can be a very powerful force."

Love. If I played along with this, I would be hinting that I was in love with Peeta. Romantically.

Disturbingly, the idea doesn't repulse me as much as I think it should.

"Alright, that's enough for tonight," Haymitch announces, waving us away. "Go to bed and let the grown-ups talk."

Silently, Peeta and I stand and walk down the hallway to our rooms. However, Peeta leans his shoulder in the frame of my door, casually blocking my way. He glances down the hallway to a set of stairs. "Want to go up on the roof?" he asks me. "Nice night, but it's a little windy."

I easily translate this as in, '_I want to talk and up on the roof they won't hear us.' _You do have the sense that we're under surveillance here.

A brief internal battle ensues. I'm pretty sure that I know what he wants to talk about and I'm equally positive that I _don't_ want to talk about it. But I don't really want to go to bed yet. And, admittedly, despite my renewed resolution to distance myself from Peeta, I don't want to be alone.

"Sure," I hear myself say, and Peeta gives a quick smile.

I follow him down the hall and then we scale a quick flight of stairs before we step into a dome-like room on the roof. Peeta opens the door to the outside and I pass through, immediately hit by the chill in the air, but it feels nice. I walk further out onto the roof all the way up to the railing at the edge and take in the sight of the Capitol at night.

It's breathtaking.

It's like thousands of multi-colored fireflies flittering around. Cars can be heard roving through the streets, the voices of the chattering Capitol citizens are just a buzz way up here on the roof. I hear a tinkling, like a bell. It's all so alive. Back in District 12 everyone would be in bed.

I glance down at the ground, so far away, and frown as I consider something. "How do they keep people from jumping?"

Peeta's eyebrows furrow, before he slowly begins to reach his hand out over the railing. I'm about to ask him what he's doing, but suddenly his hand gets zapped and he snatches it back. "Guess you can't."

"Force field," I mutter. "Of course."

Peeta looks around. "Hey, there's a garden," he says. "Let's go check it out."

The garden is beautiful. Flowers of all kinds and colors surround us, and wind chimes that hang from the many potted trees explain the tinkling sound. The wind seems stronger over here and combined with the sound of the chimes, I know that this is the best place to talk and not be overheard.

"What do you want Peeta?" I whisper, keeping my voice low just in case.

"I just wanted to tell you that this whole 'something more' doesn't have to be that big of a deal," Peeta tells me quietly. "It's not like we're going to get caught sneaking into a closet."

"A closet?" I repeat through clenched teeth. "Seriously?"

"Two older brothers," Peeta reminds me.

"It's not a big deal, Katniss," he continues. "Haymitch wants subtle. I'm good at subtle."

I scoff. "I'm not."

Peeta grins, agreeing with me. "No, but just follow my lead with this, alright? You'll do fine."

"Any ideas?" I ask. It's better that I know what to expect so I can try and react accordingly.

Peeta suddenly looks a little nervous and maybe even embarrassed. "Well . . ." he trails off and I swear that I see a slight flush in his cheeks.

A big gust of wind hits us and I shiver. "Like this," Peeta says suddenly before shrugging off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. He steps toward me, invading my personal space, and I can't help but look right into his eyes. He doesn't look at me, focusing on securing a button of his jacket around my neck so the jacket stays in place. Peeta's eyes meet mine, and he tucks a strand of hair that has escaped my braid behind my ear. "Like that." His fingers linger behind my ear before slowly gliding down my neck. I feel a warmth flood me that has nothing to do with the heat from his jacket, and it causes me to remain motionless, my gaze never faltering from his. I don't know how long we stay like this, but Peeta suddenly blinks and steps away from me.

"See?" he says, his voice sounding a little deeper than normal. "Subtle."

"Yeah," I agree, my own voice sounding odd. "Subtle."

"So," Peeta says slowly, his voice sounding normal again, though he still keeps his voice down. "What's with the Delly Cartwright lookalike?"

I'm grateful for the subject change, even if I don't particularly think the new topic is much better than the previous. Peeta is looking at me expectantly, and I know that I owe him an explanation for my outburst at the dinner table. After all, he'd covered for me.

"We were hiding in the woods, waiting for game," I whisper.

"You and your father?"

I shake my head. "No, me and Gale." Something flashes in Peeta's eyes, but I can't read the emotion. I ignore it and continue. "Suddenly, the entire forest got quiet, all except a single bird that continued to sing, almost like a warning. Moments later, the girl bursts through the trees. It was easy to see that she was running for her life. And then the hovercraft just appeared out of nowhere. A net fell on her and they pulled her up. They shot a spear through the boy that was with her. She screamed something. I think it was his name." I look up at Peeta. "They hauled them both into the hovercraft and then they disappeared."

I look at the ground as Peeta remains silent. I wonder what Peeta would have done had he been in my position then. Would he have kept hidden like me? Would he have sat back and watched? I don't believe he would have. I think he would have tried to help her. He's a better person than I am.

"I wonder if she'll look forward to seeing me die." The words escape my mouth before I can stop them.

Peeta curls a finger under my chin, gently tilting my face up so that our eyes meet. "Don't say that, Katniss," he demands softly. "She probably didn't see you, and if she did, it was probably for so brief a second she doesn't remember you."

I shake my head. "No, she does." I look into Peeta's eyes, trying to make him understand. "You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope."

Peeta says nothing, but I know that he understands now. I'm speaking from experience.

It's about a minute before either of us speaks. "We better head inside," Peeta finally says. "It's late."

He takes my hand, linking his fingers with mine, and I don't fight him. We walk back to our rooms and stop at my door. My hand drops from his and I feel a sense of loss at the lack of contact. This feeling only adds to the mounting confusion that are my feelings toward Peeta Mellark. I know that we're friends, but I've never reacted like this to anyone. The blushing. The fluttery feeling in my stomach. The unusual warmth in my chest. I'm not used to depending on someone in any way and yet Peeta is quickly becoming the first person I think of when I want comfort and since when do I want or need comfort? I'm not acting or feeling like myself at all and it's throwing me for a loop.

"Goodnight," I say.

Peeta gives me a soft smile, and I can't help but think that I've never seen him smile at anyone else like this. I find that it pleases me that he has a smile he only shares with me. It makes me feel that warmth in my chest again.

"Goodnight Katniss."

I smile before slipping into my room. When the door is shut behind me, I lean against it for a moment. Everything in my world is upside down and I'm scrambling to try and right myself. Foreign feelings are invading my system, and I don't know how to deal with them. I feel like they're building toward something and that thought scares me.

But I accept that my attempt to end whatever relationship I have with Peeta is doomed to fail. I simply can't shut him out, and I realize that I don't want to. It may be stupid, selfish, and come back to bite me, but Peeta is all that I have now, and I plan to relish it as long as I can.

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**Muahaha! Progress, people, progress! Way to go Katniss. Peeta is too irresistable. I did tell you so. Repeatedly.**

**So, how did you guys like the chapter? More romantic moments, and a very cute Peeta scene with the exploration of Katniss's room and fooling around in the shower. That makes me laugh every time. :D**

**And, for all of you who just love a protective, very sexy Peeta, I've got a scene just for you next chapter! So stick around for Tuesday's update! :D**

**Review? Pretty please? I might give you a little spoiler if you want one! Yes, I'm resorting to bribery. :D**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I know that I start every author's note the same way, but it's very important that I give a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who as reviewed, favorited, and alerted this story! You guys are _awesome_. Seriously.**

**Hmm, what to add to the disclaimer . . .**

**Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks . . . still think I own HG?**

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Chapter 5

"Alright, I know that we talked about how you two are going to act together, but I need to know your strengths," Haymitch says.

It is the morning of our first day of training. It's just Peeta and I with Haymitch at the table.

Peeta is the first to speak, but it's not about himself. "Katniss is good with a bow."

Haymitch raises his eyebrows at me. "How good?"

"I hunt," I explain. But how good am I really? I'm sure there are people that are better . . . I just haven't met one. Am I really that good? Not all of my shots are clean, but they've gotten the job done. "I'm alright," I concede.

Peeta scoffs and looks at Haymitch. "My father and I buy her squirrels. Every shot is clean through the eye. Every time."

The fact that Peeta is talking me up is rubbing me the wrong way. What about him? "What about you?" I ask, looking at him. "You're really strong."

Peeta makes a face. "What good is strength?"

I roll my eyes and look at Haymitch. "I've seen him in the market. He lifts hundred pound bags of flour like they're nothing."

"Yeah, and I'm sure that the arena will be full of sacks of flour for me to chuck at people," Peeta says dryly.

"He wrestles too," I tell Haymitch. Why is Peeta being so self-deprecating? Oh, right. Because he's Peeta. "He came in second at our school competition last year, only behind his brother." I remember that day and add wryly, "And that's only because he let him win anyway."

Peeta's eyes widened. "How'd you know that?"

"Oh, come on, Mellark," I say exasperated. "It was so obvious! You moved just a little too slow at just the right time, and let him pin you."

"Well what good is wrestling anyway?" Peeta ignores the fact that I'm right. "How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?"

"There's always hand to hand combat!" I tell him. Why is he being so stubborn? "If you get a knife you have a chance! If I get jumped, I'm dead!"

"Oh, please, Katniss," Peeta shakes his head. "You'll be sitting high up in a tree, eating squirrels and picking off people one by one!"

"You know what my mother said to me when she came to say goodbye?" he asks suddenly. "As if to cheer me up, she says that maybe District 12 will have a winner this year. But then I realized that she didn't mean me. She meant you."

I wave him off dismissively. "No she didn't."

"She said 'she's a survivor, that one,'" Peeta says, his eyes showing hurt. "_She_."

By the pain in his eyes, I know that he's telling the truth. Anger wells within me at the thought of her saying such a thing to him. He's Peeta for crying out loud! Peeta doesn't deserve that. He deserves so much more.

I'm pretty sure my anger is showing on my face because Peeta is looking at me apologetically. He thinks I'm mad at him. I have to set him straight, but I don't think I can call his mother a bitch again. This place may be bugged and I don't want all of Panem to know what I think of Mrs. Mellark. So instead, I simply say in a flat voice, "Well, you know what I think of your mother."

I see Peeta's eyes widen ever so slightly in understanding, and he offers me a soft, little smile in thanks.

"Besides." My mind flashes back to a cold night in the rain. "I only survived because someone helped me."

Peeta's eyes meet mine and I know he's remembering that night too. "People will help you in the arena," he says. "They will be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

"No more than you," I shoot back.

Peeta rolls his eyes and looks at Haymitch, "She has no idea. The effect she can have."

I frown. What the hell does that mean? I have an effect on people? Ha.

"The effect _I_ have?" I repeat. "How about the effect _you_ have?"

Peeta opens his mouth to argue, but Haymitch cuts him off. "That's enough," he shakes his head. "If you two are done arguing about who is better, we have other things to discuss."

I send one last glare at Peeta before bringing my attention to Haymitch.

Haymitch looks between both of us. "Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, say clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

I frown. Trapping and snares were Gale's area of expertise, but he had taught me a few. "I know some basic snares."

Haymitch nods. "That may be significant in terms of food." He turns his attention to Peeta. "And Katniss is right," he begins and I can't help but smirk at Peeta in triumph. He ignores me. "Never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?"

Peeta and I nod.

"Great!" He takes a swig from his flask. "Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training, and don't forget about what we talked about last night!"

Peeta and I rise from the table and by a silent consensus retreat up to the roof. I make my way straight toward the garden, and I hear Peeta's loud footfalls following me.

The garden looks different in the morning light, and I can fully appreciate its beauty now. A sea of color surrounds me, blossoms of all shapes and sizes. The potted trees are spaced out symmetrically, the crystal chimes hanging from the limbs glittering rainbows on every available surface.

"You should give yourself more credit," Peeta says as he comes to stand beside me.

"Right back at ya, Mellark." Peeta looks down at the ground. "She's wrong you know," I say. "You can win these Games."

"No, I can't," he shakes his head. "I don't want to."

"What?" I stare at him like he's grown an extra head. "What do you mean?"

"I can't live with that on my conscience." Peeta takes a deep breath and stares out across the garden. "If I win that means that everyone else will die." He looks at me, something shining in his eyes that I don't recognize, but it makes me want to blush. "You would die. I can't live with that."

"So?" I ask, and he frowns at me. "If I win that means you die."

"Peeta, you're smart," I tell him, hardly noticing that I've used his first name twice since the reaping. "Smarter than all of us. That's your greatest weapon."

"Maybe," he agrees, but I can tell he's just saying that to placate me.

We stand in silence for the next few minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I can't believe that Peeta doesn't want to win. It bothers me in a way that I can't describe. Why wouldn't he want to live? And if he doesn't want to live, why has he been seemingly playing to win since the moment we arrived in the Capitol? Peeta is smart. I wasn't lying when I told him that he was the smartest one here. He is. Even if he doesn't plan to win, he must have some plan. He has to.

"What are you doing?" I ask him. "What's your plan for the Games?"

Peeta smiles at me, though there's a sad determination in his eyes. "It's a secret."

I don't like this answer. I don't like it at all.

"Tell me," I demand, but he shakes his head. "_Peeta_." To my surprise his name escapes my lips in a pleading whisper. "Please."

In response, the sadness in Peeta's eyes seems to deepen. But he still has a genuine, small smile on his face. "You know that's the second time you've said my name in the last minute," he teases.

"Peeta—"

"Oh, there's three."

"Damn it, Mellark!" I growl in frustration. "Will you just _stop?"_

Peeta takes a step toward me and invades my personal space like he did last night. His lips turn up at the corners and he gives a playful, gentle tug on the end of my braid. "Will you stop worrying about me?" he asks.

I shake my head, and he sighs. "Why not?"

"Because," I say. "You're my friend."

My answer causes the sadness in Peeta's eyes to flare again. "We better head back inside," he says. "We don't want to get Effie off schedule."

Annoyed by his evasiveness, I turn away from him and stalk back inside. My feet stomp down the stairs, and I practically march to the elevator. Why is Peeta so complicated? It's hardly fair that he won't tell me what his plan is. In mere days, he has gotten me to accept the fact that we're friends and suddenly I'm calling him by his first name. Does he realize how hard this is for me? To accept his friendship, knowing that we're probably both going to die . . . I'm opening myself up to pain, the emotional kind. Does he realize how hard that is for me? My father's death crippled me in ways that I can't explain. I can't lose anyone else that I care about. Why doesn't Peeta see that? The least he owes me is to tell me his plan.

Peeta joins me at the elevator. Surprisingly, Effie isn't here waiting for us, so I figure we must be a little early. We stand there stiffly beside each other. I'm mad at him and he appears to be upset with me as well. At least we're both unhappy together.

Finally, Peeta sighs and looks at me. "We can't go down there like this."

"Why not?" I snap.

"Because we're supposed to be hinting that there's something more between us," he replies. "We can't do that if we're fighting."

"What?" I question smartly. "Isn't there something called a lover's spat?"

Peeta huffs. "You're making jokes. Great."

"I thought it was funny."

"Katniss," Peeta sighs and places his hands on my shoulders. "We have to play this right. You know that. One screw up and we're done." Suddenly, he lifts his hand to cradle the side of my face. Immediately, my heart begins to race. What's happening to me? What effect does Peeta Mellark have on me? "We can't mess this up," he repeats softly. "I'm sorry I can't tell you what my plan is, but you're just going to have to deal with it."

I open my mouth to reply, but the sound of Effie's heels causes my lips to seal shut. Peeta's hand drops back down to his side and I regret the loss of warmth. Ugh, where are all these feelings coming from? I decide I have to ignore it. I don't have time to decipher them.

"Oh, there you are!" Effie chirps. "I went to find you, but you weren't in your rooms. Where have you been?"

"We must have just missed each other, Effie," Peeta lies smoothly. It really does bother me how easily he can lie, but I can appreciate this lie. I don't want Effie to know about the roof. It's becoming our secret escape, and I want it to stay that way—secret.

"Ah, well, must have," she says. "Now, off we go!"

The training rooms are below ground level, so the elevator ride doesn't last for more than a minute or so. However, that one minute is enough time for my anxiety to rise. It's just occurring to me that I'm about to be with the rest of the tributes. People who I am going to be fighting in the arena. We're all going to be together, training for it. The whole idea just screams wrongness.

Right before the elevator doors open, Peeta takes my hand and I'm grateful. He's my anchor, always keeping me steady. Effie leads us out of the elevator, and the moment we step off, two Capitol people come up to us and pin the number 12 on our backs. I take a quick look around to see that everyone else has had their District number pinned to their back as well. I also notice that Peeta and I are the only ones in matching outfits. Emphasizing how we're a team.

Effie leaves us, wishing us good luck and a happy time. All of the tributes are gathered in a loose circle. Peeta and I are last to arrive. When we join the group, all eyes are on us, and I try not to let it intimidate me. They're sizing us up, seeing if we're worth all the buzz we're getting.

A tall, athletic woman who introduces herself as Atala begins to explain to us how the training schedule is going to work. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations; however, we are allowed to move from station to station as we choose. The stations vary. Survival skills. Edible plants. Knot tying. Fighting techniques. The main rule she stresses is that there is not to be any fighting done between the tributes. A sparring partner will be provided if desired.

As Atala keeps talking, I examine the tributes. I fight a frown as I realize that practically all of the boys and half of the girls are bigger than me, even if they haven't been fed properly. I recognize the signs of hunger in them. The vast majority are thin. Sunken cheeks. Hollow eyes. I may be small, but that means that I'm quick. I may be thin, but I'm strong. I have an advantage over them in the fact that the exertion of hunting has given me a healthier body than most of them.

And then there are the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4. The volunteers. Although it's technically illegal, the children in these districts train for the Games. They are fed properly and trained to be deadly. The boys all have at least a hundred pounds on me and are at least a head taller than me. Even the girls make me look like a dwarf in comparison. At home, we call them Career Tributes, or simply Careers. They almost always win. And, more than likely, they will again this year.

The slight advantage I believed I held has fled in the presence of my competition. The Careers are glaring at me in contempt. It wasn't us they were jealous of last night at the opening ceremonies. They were jealous of Portia and Cinna, our stylists.

When Atala dismisses us, the Careers immediately head for the weapons station and begin to wield them with ease. Not a minute into training and they're already trying to intimidate everyone.

They're succeeding.

"Where to?" Peeta asks quietly.

"Say we tie some knots?" I suggest mildly, giving his hand a tug and leading us to the station.

The instructor looks thrilled to have students. I guess knot tying isn't a hot spot. Once it shows that I have an idea of what I'm doing, he gets excited and shows us a few snares. We spend an hour perfecting a snare that will leave someone dangling by their leg from a tree. We stay for a while longer before my fingers begin to get tired and I suggest we move on to another station.

Peeta heads toward the camouflage station, and I see a light entering his eye. I remember that he's an artist. This will actually be fun for him. I watch, an amused smile pulling at my lips despite myself as he looks at all the available camouflage materials. The instructor sees Peeta's interest and asks if Peeta knows anything about camouflage.

"My family owns a bakery," he explains. "I do the cakes."

"Which are very beautiful," I add, and Peeta chuckles and looks at the instructor with a charming smile.

"She's biased," he explains, sending a playful grin my way that makes me blush, probably just like he'd intended.

He's doing what Haymitch asked. Hinting at something more. Subtle.

Peeta gets to work after a few more words with the instructor. I watch him curiously as he concentrates on the materials in front of him. A furrow appears between his brow, and his eyes are so focused that I wonder if he would eventually burn a hole in the floor.

Finally, he seems to decide what he's going to do, and he nods to himself. He begins to take some mud and clay and swirl it around on his arm. He mixes some berry juices in it and to my surprise it makes the color of the mud and clay turn a more natural color. It adds texture, taking away some uniformity. I watch as he weaves bits of vine and leaves into the mud. He seems to be making a pattern and I realize that he's trying to mirror sunlight coming through the leaves of trees. How would he even know what that looked like? I doubt he's ventured into the forest.

After a little more than half an hour, he declares that he's done. "Wow," I say. The final result is spectacular. "That's really good, Peeta." I make sure to say his first name, figuring that saying 'Mellark' as I normally do would detract from our goal of 'hinting at something more.'

"Thanks," he grins at me. "You wanna try?"

"Ha." I shake my head. "Let's leave this as your area of expertise."

"Oh, come on," he chides. "It's fun."

"I'm not in the mood to smear mud on my arm," I say definitively and Peeta pouts. _Pouts_.

And that's when I notice that the instructor is watching us with an amused smile.

At least we know that someone's hoping we're more than friends.

"Pretty please?" Peeta continues to pout and honestly he looks so pathetically adorable that I finally concede.

After half an hour it's clear that I'm hopeless at camouflage. "See?" I say as I look down at my arm, which looks nothing like Peeta's, which I'd tried to copy. "This is your thing. I'm no good at this."

"You're right," Peeta agrees solemnly. "You're terrible."

I smear mud on his cheek. "Watch it, Mellark," I warn playfully. "I know where you sleep at night."

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and Peeta's eyebrows disappear under his blonde curls in surprise. A smirk quickly appears on his face. "I'll make sure to lock the door."

We leave the camouflage instructor thoroughly convinced we're more than friends.

The rest of the training goes on like this. Peeta and I make our way through the more boring stations. I ace edible plants, my time in the forest serving me well. Peeta, despite Haymitch's order to appear mediocre at best, excels in hand to hand combat, pinning the assistant from the Capitol rather quickly. I actually don't do too badly at hand to hand myself, though mainly I just dodge and make my opponent eventually trip over his own feet.

Just as I'm thinking that we're about to make it out the first day without an incident, District 2 intervenes. Peeta and I are passing the weight lifting station, on our way to the elevator. We've been dismissed, although the Careers have lingered at their station, doing a few more reps. The boy from District 2, whom I learned over the course of the day is named Cato, is squatting what appears to be a pretty substantial weight. I'm only guessing because of the size of the weights on each end of the bar.

As we pass, he continues to do repetitions and calls out to us. "Hey 12!" For some reason I think he is really referring to just me. Peeta and I both stop and look back at him. "Nice outfit last night."

I purse my lips. "Cinna and Portia outdid themselves," I say, showing as little emotion as possible.

Cato continues to do repetitions. I know what he's doing. Trying to intimidate us. While the fact that he can hold that much weight is worrying, the fact that he seems to have singled us out is even more troublesome. I see out of the corner of my eye a few instructors watching us warily.

"Well, you know what they say," Cato grins maliciously. "You play with fire, you might get burned."

"We'll keep that in mind," Peeta says and I turn away to walk to the elevator, but Peeta's next words stop me. "How much weight is that?"

I turn back around, fighting to control my expression. What is Peeta doing?

Cato laughs raucously. "What? You think you can squat it?"

"No. I think I can bench it."

This only makes Cato laugh harder and the other Careers around him join in. A snake of fear begins to coil in my stomach. What does Peeta think he's doing? Haymitch said to stay away from weights! He's not supposed to show how much he can lift!

Cato drops the bar and the weights crash down on the floor loudly. "Be my guest," he makes a grand gesture toward the bench press as two assistants haul up the bar and place it in the rack above the press.

Peeta walks over to the bench press and lays on his back, getting situated. He reaches up and grabs the bar, nodding at the assistant standing behind him who is going to spot him. Peeta clenches his jaw and then begins to lift.

One rep.

Two reps.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I watch, stunned, as Peeta continues on, never pausing.

Six.

This is not good.

Seven.

We're in so much trouble.

Eight.

Haymitch is going to be so mad.

Nine.

But this is kinda hot . . .

Ten.

Wait, what?

Peeta rests the bar back in its cradle above his head and sits up. "Thanks for that," he says to Cato, who is looking murderous at being made a fool. "That was fun."

Peeta gets up and makes his way over to me. He gives me a dazzling smile and throws his arm around me, pulling me in close to his side. I wrap my arm around his waist accordingly and even lean into him a little. We reach the elevator and when the doors open we step inside. Peeta hits the 12 button and when we turn around, I see that Cato and the Careers are glaring at us. I know that Peeta sees this too, but he doesn't react. Instead, he presses a kiss to my temple just as the doors close.

Immediately, I push myself away from him. "What the hell was that, Mellark?" I whisper heatedly. "Haymitch told you not to show how much you can lift!"

"I didn't."

"Huh?" I ask stupidly.

Peeta grins. "I didn't show them how much I can lift."

"You mean," I pause as I realize what he's saying. "You mean that you can lift _more?"_

Peeta nods.

I'm floundering. "How much weight was that?"

Peeta thinks for a minute. "Felt like about three hundred."

I feel my jaw drop. _Three hundred pounds._ Peeta, looking way too impressed with himself, theatrically places a finger under my jaw and shuts it for me. "You're catching flies," he smirks.

I shove his hand away from me. "How much can you lift, then?" I ask dazedly.

"I max out at around three seventy-five," he says with a shrug.

Practically four hundred pounds. My district partner can lift almost four hundred pounds.

"You're so screwed, you know that, right?" I tell him. "Haymitch is gonna rip you a new one."

"Probably."

I frown at Peeta. "Why'd you do it?"

"He has you in his sights," Peeta repeats the same thing he said last night after opening ceremonies. "So I took a little attention off you."

He's watching out for me. Again.

I don't have time to reply before the elevator doors open to reveal Effie and Haymitch, who immediately begin to interrogate us about our day. As I predicted, Haymitch blows up at Peeta for challenging Cato and lifting weights. Peeta tells Haymitch the same thing he told me, but this does very little to appease our mentor. We do put him in a slightly better mood when we tell him of our success in hinting at something more in our relationship, which is only later confirmed when we turn on the TV and the commentators are talking about us, saying that they have sources indicating that Peeta and I are much more than friends.

The next three days pass by in a blur. While we eat breakfast and dinner with Haymitch and Effie, we eat lunch with the other tributes in the cafeteria next to the gymnasium where we train. As expected, the Careers, headed by Cato, occupy a table. They're rowdy and loud, acting like they don't have a care in the world. The rest of the tributes space out and eat alone. Peeta and I sit together and try to make small talk, which is not my strong suit, but somehow I manage it with Peeta.

We don't talk about home much, it's too painful. So instead, we focus on other things. We ask each other silly, childish questions. What's your favorite color? What's your favorite food? The inane questions went on and on, but I learned a lot I didn't know about Peeta.

His favorite color is orange, like the sunset. His favorite food was squirrel, but he's decided that his recent discovery of hot chocolate has claimed the title. He likes to sleep with the windows open, and he double-knots his shoelaces.

On the second day as we go through the stations again, we pick up a little shadow. Rue, the twelve year old girl tribute from District 11. I thought she looked young when we watched the reapings, but in person she honestly looks no more than ten years old. She's a tiny thing, but admittedly she's adorable. She reminds me so much of Prim.

Rue follows us from station to station and I learn that she's good with plants like I am, can climb like a squirrel, and can hit a target every time with a slingshot. But really, what good is a slingshot against a 220-pound male?

Since the weight lifitng incident with Peeta, the District 2 tribute, Cato, has been sending us glares every chance he gets, which is often. Peeta and I ignore him.

The third day is our session with the Gamemakers. I'd seen them in the training room the past few days, observing us sometimes from a room with a large window that overlooks the training room. Other times they were more focused on the never-ending banquet that was provided for them. I always pretended that they weren't there.

They call us by District. First the boy tribute and then the girl. This means that I will be the very last person to go. The cafeteria slowly filters out until it is just Peeta and me. We sit at the table silently, though Peeta is fidgeting, bouncing his knee up and down. I'd noticed that it's a nervous habit of his. However, the hunter in me can't stand it and I place my hand on his knee. He promptly freezes and looks at me. I blush and withdraw my hand.

"Don't be nervous," I tell him to distract myself. "You'll do fine."

They call Peeta's name then and he stands. "Remember the weights," I say before I can stop myself. "And maybe show them some camouflage if you have time."

Peeta grins at me. "Thanks, I will. You shoot straight, alright?"

I nod and watch as he disappears from the room. Now that I'm alone my nerves really begin to twist my stomach into knots. I didn't realize how much of a difference Peeta's presence made. It occurs to me that I am not only nervous for myself, but for Peeta as well. I want him to get a good score.

After fifteen minutes my name is called and I make my way into the room for my private session. The minute I step into the room I know I'm in trouble. The Gamemakers have been here too long. I'm the last of twenty four tributes and they're too tired and ready to go home to care. They're much more interested in the wine and the food than a girl from the coal district.

My eyes zero in on the bow and arrows in the middle of the room. I scan the gymnasium as I pick up my weapon. There is a small target range set up, but it's not enough for me to really show off how good I am. I spot a dummy used for knife practice in the back corner and make my way toward it.

However, the moment I knock an arrow and pull back the string, I know that something is wrong. The string is tighter than I'm used to. The arrow is more rigid. I let the arrow fly and it misses the dummy by a few inches. Humiliation floods me, and I know that whatever attention I'd commanded when I'd walked into the room, I have just lost.

I soldier on, though. I move back to the target range and fire off arrow after arrow, getting used to the new bow. In no time, I'm hitting the bull's-eye. I move back to the dummy at the opposite end of the gym. I quickly knock an arrow and let it fly. This time I hit the dummy right in the heart. Immediately, I send another arrow through a rope that's holding up a punching bag for boxing. Without pausing, I shoulder-roll forward and come to rest on one knee. I aim high. My third arrow hits the light swinging high above from the ceiling, sending a shower of sparks raining down that I think added a nice touch.

I turn around to face the Gamemakers and see that while some of them are nodding in approval, the vast majority are more interested in a roasted pig that is being set on the buffet table. Anger boils my blood. The injustice of it all. I'm being upstaged by a dead pig.

Without thinking, I rip an arrow from my quiver and string it. I aim and then send the arrow flying at the Gamemakers. Shouts and exclamations form a chaotic sound as they trip over themselves for cover. One man falls into the punch bowl. Others stare at me in shock.

I hit my target. The apple that was once in the pig's mouth is now pinned to the wall.

I hold all their gazes evenly before a smile graces my features, and I bow theatrically. "Thank you," I say. "For your consideration."

I drop the bow and arrows, and they fall to the floor with a clatter at my feet. I turn on my heel and leave without being dismissed.

I stomp my way to the elevator and when the doors open I punch the button to take me to my floor. The elevator shoots up and that's when the first few tears begin to leak from my eyes. By the time the doors open again, I'm running toward my room, ignoring the voices calling after me. I slam my door and immediately lock it before collapsing onto my bed.

Then I really begin to cry.

What have I done? Stupid, stupid, stupid! I'm done. I'm past the point of no return. There's no more hope for me.

What had I been thinking? Shooting at the Gamemakers?

I wonder what will happen to me. Will they execute me? Will they make me an Avox? Cut my tongue so that I can't speak and make me wait on the district tributes?

What about my family? What about Prim and my mother? What could happen to them because of my impulsive actions? Would they kill them? They wouldn't, would they?

How could I have been so stupid?

It was just that damn pig. They were more interested in a dead pig than a girl who is fighting for her life. Where was the morality in that?

I hear Haymitch and Effie knocking on my door, but I yell at them to go away and eventually they do. However, a few minutes later, I hear my door open. I immediately spin around, thinking that it's the Peacekeepers to come take me away, only to see Peeta standing in the doorframe.

"Go away," I tell him and bury my face back in my pillow.

I feel the bed sink beside me, and roll away from him, clutching a pillow to my chest. "Go away, damn it!" I yell, but Peeta doesn't move.

Instead, he hauls me into his arms, despite my protests, and holds me. I fight him for a moment, but he holds me tightly to his chest, and eventually I give up and let myself cry. My tears stain his shirt, but he doesn't seem to care. He just holds me, not saying a word.

* * *

**Okay, now everybody go, "Awwww..." Peeta, you're such a sweetie.**

**And how do you guys like Peeta vs. Cato, Round 2? Peeta whooped Cato's ass, and it was awesome! I cannot read that scene without grinning like an idiot. And for those of you who don't really know much about weight lifting, your squat weight is your heaviest weight. So for Peeta to bench press what Cato squats . . . that's basically saying, "You're such a wuss. Check these guns out." And in reality, it's not that far of a stretch to think that Peeta would to be able to lift somewhere in the 300 lbs range. I know guys that could lift that much at 16. Not many, but a few.**

**Besides . . . Peeta showing off how strong he is happens to be extremely sexy . . . ****And I mean, you got to think about all those 100 lbs. bags of flour he's been tossing around like nothing . . .**

**Anywho, enough of that. Aren't PK just cute, though? And Peeta has a plan . . . I wonder what that could be? The question, my dears, is does he tell her? And if he doesn't, does he explain, at least a little? Hmmmm...**

**Review please? If you do, you all get a cookie, frosted by one Peeta Mellark . . . **

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Alrighty, guys! Here we are with the next chapter! It's one of my favorites, if only because Katniss is mad at Peeta and it was fun to write! They have a little tiff, but I've never been one to drag things out, so it gets resolved in this chapter . . . sorta.**

**And I can't get to the chapter without saying THANK YOU! to everyone who reads this story. All the reviews have been lovely and supportive and they make my day, let me tell you. I go around grinning like an idiot all day, I kid you not. This story is also my most alerted, too, which is epic considering that I'm just posting the 6th chapter and I've still got 20 more to go! So, thank you everyone for being awesome.**

**Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 6

An eleven.

My training score was an eleven.

I stare at the television screen, looking at my picture, watching the number eleven flash under my name. Everyone in the room is congratulating me, Peeta is giving me an 'I told you so' smirk that causes me to smile and punch his arm. Peeta did well too. He got an eight.

After I'd cried my eyes out into Peeta's chest, we'd just laid there for a while. Mainly because I was so embarrassed I didn't think I could ever look him in the eye again. But Peeta just laid there with me and eventually asked me about my session with the Gamemakers. I'd told him the story wearily, a rogue tear escaping me every now and then. To my surprise, after I'd finished my story about shooting the arrow at the Gamemakers, Peeta had chuckled. I'd immediately been furious with him, yelling at him to leave again, but Peeta had ignored me, _again_, and explained. He reassured me that they wouldn't come take me away. After all, it would be a pain to replace me. He reassured me about my family because for them to punish my mother and Prim, they would have to admit what I had done. So, basically, he'd convinced me that I had nothing to worry about.

Amazing.

And now here I was with the top training score.

"Guess they liked your fire," Haymitch says.

Cinna is smiling brilliantly at me. "Katniss, the girl who was on fire." He gives me a congratulatory hug. "Oh, wait until you see your interview dress!"

I suppress a smile. "More flames?"

Cinna grins mischievously. "Of a sort."

After another round of congratulations, Haymitch orders us to get to bed. Peeta and I make our way down the hallway. We pause at the doors to our rooms, mine on the left, his directly across on the right. I think back to earlier in the evening when he'd held me.

"Thank you," I tell him softly. "For being there."

Peeta gives me an easy smile. "No problem."

"I ruined your shirt."

"I have more."

A soft laugh escapes me. "How did you get in anyway?" I ask, knowing that I'd locked the door.

Peeta grins at me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bobby pin. "Borrowed it from Effie."

"You picked the lock," I say disbelievingly. It's the only way he could have gotten in, and yet it had never really occurred to me. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Self taught," he explains. "Rye gets a kick out of locking me out of the house."

I laugh again. Rye Mellark is known throughout the school as the ultimate prankster. He's earned the title because everyone knows that he's responsible for every single prank, and yet he never gets caught. Last year, he was able to catch two geese. How, I still have no idea. He taped the numbers _one_ and _three_ on the geese and then set them loose in the school. Since he'd labeled the geese One and Three, everyone assumed that there was a goose number Two. Of course, there wasn't, and that was the beauty of it. The entire faculty spent the whole day looking for the second goose that didn't exist.

"You know, that was the first time someone's held me since my father died." The words leave my mouth without a thought. I don't know why I've told him this. I'm telling him things that I've never told anyone, even Gale, the one person whom I trust the most.

My words cause Peeta to frown. He looks like he wants to say something—I can see the struggle in his eyes. But he simply says, "I'm sorry."

I don't reply, too perturbed by admitting it to him in the first place.

Without a word I spin away from him and shut my door.

The next morning when I wake up, a pit of nerves twist uncomfortably in my stomach. There are only two days until the Games begin. Today is my day to prepare for my interview with Caesar Flickerman tomorrow night. And then the next day is the Games.

I shake my head clear of these thoughts and quickly dress and enter the dining room. I notice that Peeta is already up and chatting quietly with Effie and Haymitch. The talk quiets down once I sit at the table after filling my plate, but I don't pay attention to it. I'm too absorbed by the delicious lamb stew that has been served over a bed of wild rice. There are dried plums in the sauce and it's sublime.

The silence finally gets to me and I look up. I'm surprised we haven't begun talking about what we're all going to do today. Haymitch should be ordering us around by now. "So what's going on today? You're coaching us for our interviews, right?"

Haymitch nods.

"You don't have to wait until I'm done," I say. Haymitch isn't that polite anyway, and something pricks at the back of my mind. Something's up. "I can listen and eat at the same time."

"Well, there's been a change of plans," Haymitch says. "About our current approach."

I frown. Are Peeta and I not going to hint at something more in our relationship? Why would we do that? We'd destroy everything we'd built so far. All the anticipation, the suspense. We'd lose the Capitol's interest.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."

I drop my fork and it clangs as it meets my plate. My eyes immediately dart to Peeta, but he won't look at me. He's staring at his glass of orange juice like it's the most interesting thing in the world. He can't look me in the eye. Coward.

I'm so angry at him. Anger doesn't even _begin_ to accurately describe how I feel. So, imagine my surprise when I speak, my voice filled with hurt, stinging of betrayal. "Peeta," I say softly. "Why?"

Peeta still doesn't look at me.

That offense seems to be what is needed for my fury to shine. "Damn it, Mellark!" I shove myself away from the table. "The least you could do is look me in the eye before you stab me in the back!" I spit before turning on my heel and leaving the dining room.

I don't know where my feet are carrying me, but when I find myself on the roof, I curse. Why did I come here? I scowl as I walk toward the railing. My fingers curl around the cool metal and I have it in a white-knuckle grip.

I hate myself. How could I have been so stupid? I should never have believed him. Anything he said. All of it was obviously a lie. And I had let him hold me last night! I'd let him see me cry! I hadn't let anyone see me cry in four years! I had never allowed myself to be vulnerable like that with anyone, and he's betrayed me.

I hold onto the anger I feel for as long as I can, because I know that underneath the anger is hurt and I don't want to feel it. I don't want to feel the hurt that I knowingly opened myself up to. I'd done it because I'd thought that even though it would be short-lived, I thought that a friendship with Peeta was worth it.

Why is he doing this? Everything about this boy confuses me. His actions. His words. What's he playing at? He holds my hand, being my steadying force. He challenges Cato to detract some of his attention from me. He holds me as I cry. He asks me to trust him. He tells me he won't hurt me.

Lies.

I hear the door open behind me and pray that it's not him, but I know it is. Everyone else would have left me alone. "Just go away, Mellark!" I say flatly. "I mean it!"

But when I turn around, I see Cinna.

"Since I'm not Peeta, do I get to stay?" he asks me calmly.

In response I turn away from him and stare out at the bustling Capitol. I feel him come to stand beside me. "It's nice up here," he says after a moment. "Away from it all. Good way to escape the chaos for a while."

I give a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Katniss," he says softly, and I look up at him. His brown eyes are so kind. "Don't you think you're judging him a bit harshly?"

"A bit harshly?" I snarl. "Cinna, he's asking to be coached separately!"

"Maybe all is not as it seems." Cinna looks to the morning sky, studying the clouds for a moment.

"Obviously," I say. "He's playing some angle, Cinna. I just don't know what it is. He's hiding something from me."

"Why would you care?"

"Because we're friends," I say before I scowl. "At least we _were_. For all I know this is just a whole elaborate scheme concocted to lure me into a false sense of security. Pretend to be my friend and then stab me in the back."

Cinna is quiet for another long moment until he says, "He does care about you."

I scoff.

"Maybe you don't see it, maybe you refuse to, but that boy cares whether you live or die." I look up at Cinna, and I can tell by the look in his eye that he genuinely believes what he's saying.

I sigh. "He confuses me so much, Cinna," I confess quietly. "He makes me feel things, things that I don't understand. I just . . . I don't know, Cinna. I just don't know."

Cinna smiles at me. "Perhaps you'll figure it out in time."

"Until then," he continues. "You have four hours of coaching with Effie."

I let out a dubious laugh. "What can Effie possibly teach me that will take four hours?"

A more accurate question would have been what _can't_ Effie teach me in four hours. After talking with Cinna, I go down to my room, glad that I don't run into Peeta or Haymitch. Effie immediately gets to work, and for a moment I'm scared of my escort.

Effie puts my feet into four inch heels that kill my soles and pinch my toes. I walk from one side of my room to the other until I can walk without wobbling. Next is the floor length gown. I hate it. It swishes uncomfortably between my legs, and I hitch it up, causing Effie to screech, "Not above the ankle!"

In four hours, Effie has taught me how to walk, sit, stand, and smile. Well, she didn't teach me to smile; she just tried to get me to smile _more_.

"Come on, Katniss," Effie chirps. "It's not that hard. Just smile."

My grimace deepens.

Effie looks like she's about to pull her hair out, wig and all, but somehow she keeps the smile on her face. It's actually quite disturbing. "Katniss, I've seen you smile before. Genuinely. Just think of what made you smile then."

I pause. What made me smile? The woods, but they reminded me of home. Gale, but I'd probably never see him again. Prim for the same reason. It occurs to me that the only way I've been able to smile is Peeta.

I frown, and Effie throws her hands into the air.

I glance at the clock and see that my four hours is up. "Oh, look, time to go," I say, chucking off my high heels, hiking up my dress to my knees, and fleeing from the room.

It's just my luck that I run smack into Peeta.

My hands brace themselves on his chest, and his hands settle on my waist. For a moment, we just stare at each other, but then I break eye contact and shove him to the side. I must have shoved him harder than I thought or he was caught off guard because I hear him hit the wall.

I really don't care.

Haymitch is in the main room waiting for me. He's sitting in one of the easy chairs, and I take a seat on the couch. I wait for him to start telling me what to do or what to expect, but he just sits across from me, frowning.

Finally, I cave after five minutes of silence. "What?" I ask.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," Haymitch replies, studying me. "How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you're shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable. You and Peeta have shown a united front. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors."

I frown at the mention of Peeta. "What's Mellark's approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?"

"Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally," says Haymitch. "Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile."

"I do not!"

I swear Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Please. I don't know where you pulled that cheery, wavy girl on the chariot from, but I haven't seen her before or since."

My mind flashes back to the night of the parade. I remember clutching Peeta's hand, looking up at him. I remember simply watching what he was doing and then mimicking the action. I almost growl in frustration. Since when did I depend on someone so much?

"You've got the audience wrapped around your finger already, sweetheart," he says. "Yours and Peeta's relationship will come up during the interview. That's a given. In fact, it'll probably be all you talk about, though he'll probably ask you why you volunteered. You've got one shot at this, make it count."

We spend the rest of the time trying to find me an angle that I can work. It quickly becomes hopeless, and Haymitch begins to drink. We discover that I'm not sexy, witty, or charming. I don't have the arrogance to be cocky, and apparently I'm too vulnerable to be fierce. Two hours into the session and it's looking like I'm not anything.

"Come on, sweetheart," Haymitch growls. "Give me something to work with! You've got just about as much charm as a dead slug."

Ouch. That hurts.

"Listen," Haymitch says, his voice softer than before. "Try being honest. Tell it like it is. You're good at that."

"What?" I ask bewildered. What if they ask me about how I feel about the Games? Am I supposed to say that I think they're barbaric, heinous, and completely despicable? Somehow, I think not.

My thoughts must show on my face, because Haymitch shakes his head. "Just be honest. Be yourself."

"You said I'm sullen and hostile!" I tell him, irritated.

Haymitch smirks. "Yeah, around me. It must be my sparkling personality. When you get up there, answer the questions like you would to a friend."

"I don't have many friends."

"Then it should be easier to choose." Haymitch takes a swig from his flask and frowns as it's empty. "Oh, that's not good," he says before getting up and going to get more alcohol.

I dismiss myself, declaring the coaching over.

Dinner is a tense event. No one says a word and the only sounds to break the silence are scratching forks and knives against plates and the occasional sound of a glass being refilled. And yet, the silence between Peeta and I is so ridiculously _loud_. It's like when you scream until your voice is raw and soundless. I sneak glances at him when I think he's not looking and he sneaks glances at me when he thinks I'm not looking.

It's irritating the hell out of me.

The hurt I feel by his betrayal has not faded, and Cinna's words on the roof this morning have done little to dull the pain and only catapulted my confusion to new heights. I try to hold on to the anger, but it takes so much energy. I'm tired, and the pain is settling in, producing an odd ache in my chest.

I find myself on the roof once again later that night. The night is warm and there's a cool breeze that feels heavenly against my skin. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. For a moment, I'm back in District 12 in the woods with Gale. It's just a regular Sunday afternoon. I wonder what he's doing now. I miss him. I miss my best friend.

When I hear the door open to the roof I know that it's not Cinna this time. I hear Peeta come up beside me. We stand beside each other, although there is a good two feet between us, even if it feels like a hundred. Nothing is said by either of us for a long time.

"What do you want Mellark?" I finally ask.

"For you to trust me."

I stare at him incredulously. "You want me to trust you? We're about to go into the Games, Mellark. There's only one winner."

"So you've told me," Peeta says. "Multiple times. And I've already told you that I don't want to win."

By this time we've made our way to the garden so that the sound of the wind and the chimes drown out our voices.

"Oh, so I'm supposed to believe that if one of the tributes attacks you, you're just gonna let them kill you?" I whisper, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

"No," Peeta admits. I get the feeling that he wants to tell me something again, there's conflict shining in his eyes. "I wouldn't."

I growl. "Then what am I supposed to believe?" I ask. "What's your endgame, Peeta?"

"You'll find out soon enough," he says quietly.

Suddenly, it all clicks. "This is all a part of your plan," I realize. "Asking Haymitch to coach us separately. You're doing it so I won't know what you're going to say in your interview."

Peeta doesn't say anything, but I know that I'm right.

"What are you planning?" I ask him again.

A small smile pulls at the corner of his lips. "It's a secret."

"Not for much longer," I say smartly, and Peeta loses his smile, looking serious.

"No," he agrees. "Not for much longer."

We're silent for another long moment. I look at the flowers around us. My fingers caress a large red blossom with a yellow center. It's beautiful.

"Are we friends, Peeta?" I ask, my voice sounding hesitant, fearful of his answer.

"Yes," he says softly. "Katniss, I know you're confused, and I'm sorry I hurt you. But I've got to see this through."

"How important can it be?" I ask him. "When it comes down to it, none of this matters. The training scores, the interviews. All we have in the arena is ourselves."

"Maybe," Peeta shrugs. "But this is the most important thing I'll probably ever do."

I don't see how it could be. His words just don't make sense to me. Obviously, he has a plan and it's all coming to a head during his interview. I wonder what he's going to say. What could he be thinking of saying that would cause him to ask to be coached separately, just so I don't know what it is? It makes me think that he's going to say something about me.

"Is it about me?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Is that why you're doing this?"

Peeta gets that look in his eye again, the one that makes my heart race and my stomach flutter. He closes the space between us and reaches up to run the back of his knuckles over my cheek. The gesture is so gentle and caring that it causes my heart to clench in a way that's quickly becoming familiar to me whenever Peeta is concerned.

"Everything I do, I do for you," he tells me softly.

His words, combined with the foreign feelings in my system and my confusion cause me to want to tuck tail and run, but he has me frozen. I can't move. I stare into his blue eyes, so like a cloudless summer sky. I can't look away.

"You're still watching out for me," I realize.

"Always."

* * *

**Oh, Peeta. Sweetheart, you are every girl's dream you know that? Seriously.**

**Katniss you need to realize this and jump on it . . . oh, that statement could be taken more than one way, couldn't it? :D**

**So . . . Katniss sorta kinda knows what Peeta's big plan is. I mean, Peeta can't flat out lie to her. That would be very un-Peeta like. And we can't have that.**

**So. Next chapter. Interviews. *cue dramatic music***

**Reviews anyone? They do make my day. **

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Okay, okay, okay. I've got to get something off my chest. It's overwhelming me in it's intensity, so I'm just going to throw this out there . . .**

**OH. MY. GOD. YOU GUYS ARE EPICALLY AWESOME AND FANTASTICAL. WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE YOU? **

**Dude, this be crazy.**

**So...now that my need for an outburst has been satisfied...**

**Seriously, though. Thank you guys for reading. Your reviews are a joy to read, and I do try and reply to every last one of them. What's surprised me most is the sheer amount of readers I have. And some of you guys read my Merlin stories! Merlin! The stories that I wrote 2 years ago and desperately need to go back and edit! I won't lie, I'm flipping out at how many readers have followed me into this fandom. So, really guys, thank you bunches. :)**

**And so this chapter is the interviews (insert dramatic music here). Lots of fun tweaking from the books in this chapter. Though I think I will surprise you with the route that I took with a particular character's interview...**

**Oh, goody. (giggles in anticipation)**

******Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 7

All I can think about the next morning are Peeta's words last night on the roof. What is he going to say, and how is it going to help me? I don't know what could possibly make any difference. In the end, the Capitol just wants entertainment. They want to watch children fight to the death. What do our words matter? How can a few simple words change anything?

Peeta consumes my thoughts the rest of the morning. I hardly notice my prep team as they work on me, polishing my skin and making it glow. Venia does my hair, weaving in strands of red into my signature braid. They place a thin layer of makeup over my face and highlight all of my features. Big eyes. Red lips. They even put gold glitter in my eyelashes. The final touch is when they cover my body in a light gold dust that makes me shimmer.

When Cinna comes into the room, he's carrying a large garment bag that I assume holds my dress. I eye the bag curiously, and Cinna notices. He smiles excitedly before telling me, "Close your eyes."

Only because he's Cinna to I humor him and do as he's asked. I feel the soft silken dress caress my skin and then I feel the weight of it. It has to be forty pounds! Octavia helps me into my shoes, which I note with relief are only two inches. Thank you, Cinna.

"Are you ready?" Cinna asks me.

I nod.

"Open your eyes."

I don't recognize the creature standing in front of me. She's unequivocally beautiful. Her dark hair, woven with red, seems to glow. . .her skin is radiant. . .but her dress, oh her dress. . ._my_ dress.

Waves of red silk cascade down my body, wrapping around me. Hundreds of reflective gems are woven into the dress. Red. Yellow. Orange. Blue. They refract the light and make me look as if I'm engulfed in tongues of flame.

"Oh, Cinna," I whisper, looking at him in awe. "It's gorgeous!"

Cinna smiles. "Twirl for me."

I do and my prep team reacts with squeals of delight. They all praise Cinna before they leave, and when they're out the door, Cinna turns to me. "Alright, let's have you move around a little bit."

I walk around the room, getting used to the heels and the dress. I'm immensely grateful that the dress hangs in such a way that I don't have to bother with lifting the skirt. I mentally praise Cinna for his fortuitous foresight.

"So, all ready for the interview, then?" he asks.

My stomach drops at the thought of being on stage with Caesar Flickerman, live in front of all of the Capitol and Panem. "I think so," I manage to say without my voice trembling. "Um, Haymitch told me to be myself."

Cinna smiles. "That's probably some of the best advice he'll ever give you."

"But everyone else will be working some angle, Cinna," I say, worried. "What if they don't like me? Most people don't."

"They already love you, Katniss," he tells me. "You're the girl on fire. You've got their attention. Trust me."

"That's why you need to just be yourself up there," Cinna continues softly. "You, my dear, can only be who you are. Few people have that honesty, that spirit. It's valuable. And it's what separates you from everyone else. You are who you are. What you see is what you get."

Cinna's words make me feel better, but I still have one problem. "Haymitch said to pretend like I'm talking to a friend, but . . ." I trail off. "Cinna, I honestly don't know who that can be. It can't be Gale or Prim. And if it were Peeta, there's no telling what I would say. I don't know who to choose."

"What about me?" Cinna asks. "Would you consider me a friend?"

"Of course," I say immediately and Cinna smiles at me.

"I'll be sitting right down front," he says. "Front and center. Just talk to me, and everything will be fine."

I nod. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

Cinna opens the door and leads me through the twisting turns backstage to the elevators so we can meet up with the rest of our entourage from District 12. As soon as the doors open and Peeta steps out, my eyes are glued to him. Portia and her prep team have been hard at work, and it's plain to see that it paid off. Times ten.

Peeta is looking more handsome than ever before in a coal black suit with flame accents cut just for him. I'm glad to see that we're not dressed alike this time. That was getting annoying over the past few days. Now, we simply coordinate, looking like two designs of the same outfit. I like this much better.

Blue eyes are staring at me, and I feel the greatest need to blush, but I fight the feeling. Peeta's eyes travel my body from head to toe and my insides are flipping and twisting and my heart is pounding so loud I'm surprised that he can't hear it. When our gazes meet, there's something different about his eyes. They seem like they're an even deeper shade of blue and it's making me dizzy.

He sends me a smile that's so incredibly soft and genuine. "You're beautiful."

A blush stains my cheeks and I hope that with the makeup and the dim offstage lighting that he doesn't notice. "Thank you," I say, feeling overwhelmed by the effect he's having on me.

It's all so new and I don't know how to react to it. While these new feelings are foreign, they're . . . exciting. But at the same time, I'm recoiling from them. New is not good. New is unknown and therefore unpredictable. I always shy away from change, but something is telling me that maybe this change isn't so bad. . .

And then there is another voice that's telling me to forget these feelings. Oddly, the voice sounds like Gale.

The rest of the tributes begin to line up offstage and we take our places at the end of the line. All twenty-four of us will be seated in a wide arc on a stage built in the City Circle. The interviews, each three minutes in length, will begin with the girl tribute from District 1 and then meander all the way down to me. At least I'm not dead last like Peeta.

I wish that I was the first to go, just so I could get it over with.

Right before we walk on stage, Haymitch comes up behind us. "Remember, you two are still hinting," he says. "That's all they care about from you two." He glances at Peeta. "Make it count."

I open my mouth to ask Peeta what Haymitch meant, but the line is moving and my heart is racing as I step onto the stage. My only thought is that I hope Peeta's reflexes are quick enough to catch me if I trip. But it turns out these thoughts aren't needed because I make it to my seat without falling on my face.

The interviews will start in mere minutes and I foolishly look around to distract myself. There must be thousands of people in the City Circle, and even though it's evening, the stage is as bright as the sun. My eyes find Cinna, and that's a small comfort to me. He's right where he said he would be—front and center. The cameras will cut to the stylists when the crowd reacts to their handiwork. My eyes glance toward the many balconies spaced out on either side of the City Circle. One to my left is reserved for the Gamemakers. I'm glad I can't see their faces. Television crews occupy more than one balcony and I try to ignore them. I'm going to be surrounded by cameras for the foreseeable future; I might as well start to forget they're even there.

Simple in theory. Seemingly impossible in practice.

I glance at Peeta, and he gives me a winning smile. I envy his ease with the cameras. He knows they're there, but instead of being terrified, he gives the cameras exactly what they want. He always knows what to say and what to do. It's remarkable.

But even I'm surprised when I Peeta reaches over, grabs my chair, and maneuvers it as close to him as possible. He makes a big show about it, not bothering to do it delicately so as to make the movement as unnoticeable as possible. Instead, he lets the legs of my chair grind against the floor, making a loud scraping noise that causes all twenty-two of the other tributes to look at us.

Peeta either doesn't notice or doesn't care, I assume that it's a little of both, and throws his arm around the back of my chair like he doesn't have a care in the world. He sees the mild panic and questions in my eyes, and gives me a reassuring smile and a playful tug on my braid.

He leans his head down to me, his lips at my ear. "Relax," he breathes. "We can do this."

Already, the cameras are flashing at us, and I see that Peeta is playing his role to perfection once again. How he's able to manipulate the crowd is nothing short of amazing. The interviews haven't even started and already we have them wrapped around our finger.

It's only seconds later when Caesar Flickerman flounces onto the stage. Caesar has hosted the interviews for more than forty years and it's frightening how little his appearance has changed over the years. In the Capitol you can have surgery done to fix the signs of aging. Where in District 12 wrinkles were a sign of longevity and success, in the Capitol they just made you ugly.

Like in all years past, Caesar is in his midnight blue suit that's lit up with tiny twinkle lights. This year, his hair, lips, and eye makeup are a powder blue. It's horrendous, but a huge leap better than last year when his color of choice was crimson. It had looked like he was bleeding everywhere.

Caesar warms up the crowd with opening comments and a few jokes. Then he calls up the girl tribute from District 1, Glimmer. It's not difficult to see which angle Glimmer's mentor chose. Glimmer is tall and athletic with golden skin and equally golden hair, along with the big, bright green eyes of an enchantress. Add to that a sheer golden gown that hugs her every curve and it's obvious that Glimmer is going for sexy. She's succeeding with flying colors.

The Districts slip by. Before I know it 2, 3, and 4 are done. The girl from District 5's angle appears to be elusive and sly. She pulls it off flawlessly and I name her Foxface because of it. 8, 9, and 10 go by and my palms begin to sweat. Not even Peeta's arm around my shoulders or Cinna's calming presence can ward off the nerves that are twisting my stomach into knots.

When Rue, the little girl from 11, takes her seat beside Caesar, she immediately has everyone's attention. Her stylist has put her in a gossamer gown, complete with wings. It's appropriate, because Rue's posture is that of a bird about to take flight. Rue, surprisingly, received a seven for her training score, which is unheard of for one so young. I, like the rest of the audience, am wondering exactly what she did during her session to gain such a score.

"I'm very hard to catch," she explains. "And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't in a million years," Caesar says encouragingly before the buzzer goes off and Thresh, Rue's district partner takes the stage.

Thresh's angle is menacing, and it suits him perfectly. While Rue is cute and tiny, Thresh is hulking and fierce. He is easily six and a half feet tall and built like an ox. No matter what Caesar does, Thresh gives one word answers, or simply doesn't answer at all.

And then Caesar is calling my name, introducing me.

Peeta gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before I stand and make my way to Caesar. My heart is beating so loud, I'm afraid it's going to jump out of my chest. I sit and my eyes immediately find Cinna in the crowd. He nods encouragingly to me, and while his presence reassures me, it does nothing to slow my quick heartbeat.

"So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District 12," Caesar begins. "What's impressed you the most since you arrived here?"

Huh? My mind blanks, staring out at all the people. All of the people watching me, judging me. I don't know what to say. I find Cinna in the crowd and he gives me a smile.

_Be honest._

"The lamb stew." I say it the moment after it pops into my head.

Caesar laughs and I realize that some of the audience is too. Well, that least my first answer wasn't a complete fail.

"The one with the dried plums?" he asks. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful!" Caesar suddenly makes a face of faux horror. "It doesn't show, does it?" he asks the audience.

I'm grateful to Caesar. He truly does help the tributes with their interviews.

Caesar turns his attention back to me. "I don't know about you, but my heart stopped when you came out at the opening ceremonies! That outfit! What did you think about it?"

I laugh, and look at Cinna apologetically. "After I got over the fear of being burned alive?"

The audience laughs and the cameras zoom in to show Cinna shaking his head, a smile on his face.

"But honestly, I think it was the most gorgeous costume and Cinna is brilliant," I say with a smile like Effie taught me. "I mean, look at what I'm wearing now!" I lift up my skirt to show off the jewels of fire. The crowd _oohs_ and _ahhs _and I see Cinna making a small gesture.

_Twirl for me._

I spin in a circle and the crowd goes wild.

"Oh, do that again!" Caesar encourages and I twirl a few more times before I have to stop because I'm afraid I'll fall over. "Oh, don't stop!"

"I'm dizzy!" I giggle. Wait . . . did I seriously just giggle? Must be the nerves.

"Don't worry, I've got you," Caesar grins, wrapping a protective arm around me and guiding me back to my chair. "Can't have you following in your mentor's footsteps can we?"

The crowd roars at this. Haymitch's nosedive off the stage at the reaping is now famous, and the cameras quickly find him. He gives them an easy-going smile before pointing at the stage, telling them to focus on me.

Which they do.

"Now," Caesar turns back to me. "Let's talk about that training score! An eleven? Care to share how that came about?"

I blush against my will and glance up at the Gamemakers' booth. "I don't think I'm allowed to talk about it," I say with a small smile as I remember the man falling over into the punch bowl. "But I think it was a first."

The camera zooms in on the Gamemakers and they're all smiling and nodding in agreement.

"Alright, let's go back to when your sister's name was called at the reaping," Caesar says and I freeze, internally panicking. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?" I can't talk about this! I don't want Panem to know what I was thinking or anything about Prim in any shape or form.

I glance at Cinna, and take a deep breath before looking at Caesar. "Her name is Prim and I love her more than anything," I say seriously. The mood is quiet. Everyone is listening to what I have to say.

"Did she say anything to you?" Caesar asks.

"She asked me to try and win," I say. You could hear a pin drop; the City Circle is so quiet. "And I promised her I would."

Caesar let's my answer marinate in the crowd before going on. "I'm sure she has faith in you," he says. "Now, we're running out of time, Katniss, but I have to ask you one more question that me and all of Panem are _dying_ to know." Caesar gives me a winning smile and then leans closer to me conspiratorially. "Now, there have been rumors just flying about you and your fellow tribute . . ." The audience cheers and whoop whistles causing me to blush, and my eyes betray me as they flash immediately to Peeta who has a small smile on his face.

"_So_," Caesar draws out the word for emphasis. "My dear, Katniss, what's the truth?"

I pause. I open my mouth to say something, but the words get stuck in my throat. I know that I'm blushing like crazy. I can feel the heat of my blush from my chest to the roots of my hair. Finally, I'm able to say, "I owe Peeta my life."

It's not what Caesar was expecting me to say, and it wasn't what I expected me to say either. The words just came out, but I can't take them back.

Caesar makes a 'go on' motion with his hand.

I can't believe I've gotten myself into this. I can't believe I'm going to talk about the bread.

"My father died in a mine explosion when I was eleven," I say, and to my horror I feel the beginnings of tears forming in my eyes, but I know I have to continue. "The Capitol gave us some money, but eventually it ran out and we were starving. And then one night in the rain, I was heading home from trying to sell some things in town. But . . . I just gave up for a moment . . ." I trail off, remembering that night. "I didn't realize I'd stopped behind the bakery until, suddenly, Peeta was there." There's no way I'm telling the whole truth of this story. I'm not announcing to all of Panem that Peeta got a beating from his mother for his kindness. "He gave me two loaves of bread. He helped me when no one else did." I can't help but look at Peeta, who is hanging on my every word, just like the audience. "I guess you could say he's been watching out for me ever since."

Caesar opens his mouth to say something, but the buzzer interrupts him. "Well, there you go ladies and gentlemen! Katniss Everdeen from District 12!"

I take my seat by Peeta, and he barely has time to give my hand a quick squeeze before Caesar calls him up.

Caesar gets right down to it the moment Peeta sits. I can see that Peeta's good-humored, likable approach isn't really going to work. Caesar wants Peeta's thoughts on what I said.

"Now, Peeta, I'm just going to jump right into things," Caesar tells him, and Peeta gives him an easy smile.

"Great."

"It seems to me Peeta that you've got a case of white-knight syndrome," Caesar says and the audience cheers. "Tell me, what made you give Katniss that bread?"

Peeta hesitates, before glancing at me with a small smile. "Because it was the right thing to do."

"Oh, come on," Caesar chides playfully. "There's got to be more to it than that!"

"Well . . ." Peeta pauses, and looks down, suddenly looking very shy and nervous. "I couldn't _not_ help her, Caesar."

"Why is that?"

The audience is hanging on Peeta's every word, just like I am. I feel my heart begin to speed up, like it knows that something is coming. My mind flashes back to our conversation on the roof last night. Peeta has a plan. The plan is coming to a head tonight, right now. I can feel it. He's going to say something, something that will supposedly help me.

I just have no idea what it could be.

And then Peeta speaks. "Because I'm in love with her."

* * *

**Annnnnndddd...CUT!**

**Yep. Katniss talked about the bread. I went there, yes I did. After all, what was she going to say? "Peeta is ridiculously sexy and I love him more than my own life?" Though that would have been _awesome_ . . . she's not quite to that point, yet. Never fear, eventually, we will get there. :D**

**Sooooo...next chapter is my favorite chapter of the entire story. Somehow, I made one entire conversation last more than 4,000 words. I still don't know how I managed to do that. But, I think a lot of you will _definitely_ like the next chapter! Especially the end. Definitely the end. :D**

**And now, hopefully, I've gotten you all revved up for the next chapter, so you can be as excited as me. And I'm practically bouncing. _Bouncing_.**

**See you guys Saturday!**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Okay guys, first things first. I'm sorry that I didn't get a chance to reply to all of your reviews. I always try to reply and say 'thank you' because as a reader and a writer, I know how much thanks means to both sides of the equation.**

**So...THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND REVIEWING AND ALL OF YOU ARE AWESOME!**

**Moving along to the chapter, as I've said, this is my favorite in the entire story. Simply for the awesomeness that ensues. It's a great chapter for Katniss. She actually does some soul searching in this chapter! I know, I know, foreign concept, right? **

**And Peeta gets to be his adorable-sexy-cute self.**

**All and all, it was a ton of fun to write.**

**Especially the end. Definitely the end. I LOVE the end. Just for the mental picture. :D**

**Oh, I had a little shout-out to two of my fav TV shows and a movie. See if you can spot 'em! Peeta has two of the references and Katniss has the third. **

**********Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 8

_Because I'm in love with her._

Oh. My. God.

My mind is completely blank and yet running rampant at the same time. While I feel dazed, my mind is pulling up every single interaction I've had with Peeta my entire life. Not once did I ever think that he was in love with me. But, now that he's said it . . . it was so obvious. He didn't necessarily hide it, but he didn't flaunt it. Like Peeta had told me himself, he is good at being subtle.

No, he is a _master_ at being subtle.

The bread. The smiles. Little things that I'd never noticed before. I'd just attributed them all to Peeta being Peeta. I think back to more recent times. The past few days since the reaping. The hand holding. The soft words. That _look_. That odd look in his eye that I didn't have a name for—well, I do now. My mind flashes back to the moment on the rooftop last night. His gentle caress.

Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread, is in love with me.

The buzzer goes off, signaling the end of his interview and all the interviews in general. Peeta makes his way over to me, avoiding my eyes, and we stand as the anthem of Panem plays. I barely notice when we're ushered off the stage. It's not until the telltale _ding_ when we reach our floor that I realize we'd even entered the elevator.

Everyone seems to be waiting for me to say something, but I don't know what to say. What do they expect me to say? My thoughts are jumbled and my heart is pounding in my ears. This was what Peeta was planning on doing all along, I realize. Admit his love for me on live television, in front of the entire nation. Suddenly, I'm furious.

I spin around and push him into the wall so hard that a picture falls to the floor, sending shattered glass skittering across the floor. "What the hell, Mellark!" I hit his chest. "This was your plan? How long did it take you to come up with the idea?" Everything seems to be clicking inside my head. My mind flashes back to the first night on the train. Peeta had stayed with Haymitch after I'd left. "You told him that night on the train, didn't you?" I turn my fury on Haymitch. "And all this about 'hinting at something more' and 'building the suspense' that was all about tonight! Both of you were playing me! It was all just a game, and I was your pawn! That's what you meant about making it count tonight, isn't it?"

"Now, just wait a minute, sweetheart—"

"Do. Not. Call. Me. That." I hiss between clenched teeth before turning my attention back to Peeta.

"And if you really love me, you would have the decency to tell me yourself instead of on live television, in front of all of Panem!"

It's only after I finish screaming that I realize I'm crying.

Damn it.

With a frustrated screech, both at myself and the world, I fly from the room. I slam the door to my room harder than I ever have and feel very satisfied by the loud sound that seems to reverberate through the hallway. Suddenly, I remember something.

"And so help me Mellark if you pick the lock on this door I will skin you alive!" I yell through the door and I have no doubt that he heard me.

I probably stand in the middle of my room, fuming, for at least half an hour. It's another ten minutes before I can be sure that I'm calm enough to take my dress off, Cinna's beautiful masterpiece, without ripping it to shreds.

I methodically find a hanger and put the dress on it, and then I strategically hang it on the hook on the bathroom door. Robotically, I step into the shower and wash away all the makeup and glitter that my prep team doused me in and by the time I step out into a towel, I'm feeling relatively calm.

But I still feel the rage roiling underneath.

I braid my hair, twisting it deftly between my fingers before slipping into the most comfortable night clothes I can find—a pair of black cotton pants and a matching tank top. I lay in bed and fume.

I just don't get it. The idea that Peeta had been planning this since the first night refuses to sink in. I still don't see how this helps me in any way. All this has done is excite the Capitol. The boy who saved the girl because he was in love with her, only to have the possibility of killing her in the arena . . . tragic. And just what the Capitol would thrive on.

But Peeta doesn't want to win the Games.

I frown. Then what in the hell is he doing?

Hours pass and I can't find sleep. I toss and turn. My eyelids feel like lead, but they simply won't close. My mind won't turn off. I can't stop thinking about Peeta Mellark. What he's play at. What he's thinking. Why. Why, is my major question. Just . . . why?

Eventually, I give up. I haul myself out of bed and quietly unlock and poke my head out of the door. My feet ghost over the floor, not making a sound, and I climb the stairs that lead to the roof.

I step out onto the roof, and the immediate cool breeze that hits my skin refreshes me. I close my eyes and let myself relish the feeling. It feels cleansing, free. Up here, on the roof of the Training Center, I feel the Capitol's hold on me slip. Maybe that's why Peeta and I tend to flock here.

It is when I open my eyes again that I see I'm not alone. Peeta's large figure is leaning against the rails, his forearms resting atop the metal. His head is tilted up toward the stars, as if asking them questions. I wonder vaguely if he's finding his answers.

"Can't sleep either, huh?" he asks, startling me.

I debate whether or not to simply turn around and go. My anger at his actions is still present, but I feel the flames dying out now. All that's left is confusion and a want to understand. "I know you're pissed at me, but I'd rather be out here than cooped up in there," he says.

Giving in, I go over to him and stand by his side. I place my hands on the railing, curling my fingers around it as far as I can. I try not to focus on how close Peeta and I are, practically shoulder to shoulder. I don't know why I'm this close to him in the first place. It seems to only heighten the tension in the air. You would need a hacksaw to cut through it.

But even through my ire, I can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves. The contrast of his warmth and the sudden cold surrounding me causes me to shiver and gooseflesh to appear on my arms.

"Cold?" Peeta asks and before I can deny it, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me to him so that my back rests against his chest and both his arms are wrapped around my waist.

All the ways that I could get out of his embrace flit through my mind. A sharp elbow to the gut. A hard stomp on his foot. Many ideas cross my consciousness, some time-honored classics, some much more creative. And yet, I don't act on any of them. I let myself be held. I might be mad at him, but something about this feels right.

Scary thought.

I feel my ire at Peeta fading. What's the point to hold on to it anyway? We're going into the Games tomorrow, and oddly enough, I don't want to go into the Games angry with Peeta. I want to work things out, just so I'll know where we stand. I just want to know.

If only I really knew exactly _what_ I wanted to know.

In my mind's eye I see the events of the past few days. The days since the reaping. It plays like a movie in my head and I watch it all go by. I see Prim getting reaped. I see myself rushing to volunteer. I see Peeta getting reaped and I see my face, twisted in a play of emotions I can't name. I see the night on the train. Accepting that Peeta and I are friends, escaping from the train briefly. Being pulled through the crowd at the Capitol, clutching Peeta's hand like a lifeline. Opening ceremonies. Our entwined hands in the air. Training. Cato. Weights. Peeta. The rooftop conversations. Peeta telling me that he doesn't want to win the Games. Peeta asking me to trust him. Tonight. The interviews.

All of this takes only seconds, but it feels like longer. I look up over my shoulder at Peeta to find that his eyes are already on me. I'm entranced by those blue eyes. There's just something about him. Something that makes him different from everyone I know. Something that causes me to act like this with him, vulnerable . . . scared . . . no, there's something about Peeta that just makes me _feel_.

Since my father's death, all the pain I suffered afterward, I shut myself off from emotion as much as possible. It's easier this way. The less you care, the less chance you have of being hurt. It's a lesson I learned in the hardest way possible. But there's just something about Peeta Mellark that makes all of my suppressed emotions jump to the surface, and I've gone so long without allowing myself to feel them that I'm lost, confused by my own feelings.

Until the reaping, everything had made sense to me. I was Katniss Everdeen. I was strong. I needed no one. I relied on no one but myself. All my actions went towards my survival and Prim's. I didn't need comfort. I didn't need reassurance. I didn't need any of these trivial things. They made you weak. They made you rely on someone other than yourself. I didn't need nor want that.

And yet since the reaping, what had I been doing? Clutching Peeta's hand. Letting him hold me as I cried. Sharing random bits of information that I've never shared with anyone. Depending on someone. And I realize that it's kind of nice. It's comforting, knowing that you have someone to go to. I haven't had that for the longest time. Maybe that's why I'm allowing Peeta in as much as I am. Because, for once in my life, I didn't need to be the strong one. I could let someone else shoulder the weight of the world. I could let someone comfort me and make me feel like I wasn't alone.

"I'm surprised you haven't hit me yet," he teases. "I'd braced myself for violence on your part."

"I thought about it," I admit.

"Then why haven't you hit me?"

"Because I'm cold."

Peeta chuckles and I feel the rumble of his chest against my back. I ignore the flurry of feeling in my stomach that it causes. Traitorously, I feel my body begin to relax against him, and in response his hold around my waist tightens. I feel his face in my hair and don't dare move. There is something about the position we are in. Me, allowing him behind me, making me vulnerable. His strong, muscled arms wrapped around me, trapping me against him. It makes it seem like I trust him, like I trust him not to hurt me.

And I realize that I do. Even after all that's happened. His scheming. His interview. I trust Peeta Mellark.

Peeta is a boy who took a beating to give me two loaves of burnt bread that ultimately saved my life and my family's; a boy who drops off a single frosted cookie on our doorstep every year on Prim's birthday. This is a boy who got into a fight at school, risking his entire reputation, to defend the people from the Seam, even though I know that truthfully he was defending me. Peeta is a boy who does everything for others and leaves virtually no thought toward himself. He is a boy, who, through small bits of conversation throughout four years, has taught me so many lessons about people and life.

Yes, I trust Peeta.

It's always been there, I realize, from the moment he gave me the bread. That moment began it all. That was the moment when I knew that it wasn't just me. There was someone watching over me. It's nice, comforting. It felt safe, and I hadn't felt safe since the day my father died.

Feeling perturbed at my rare introspection, and doubly perturbed by what I had deduced and the feelings still roiling through me, I realize that Peeta has hardly said a word.

"You're awful quiet," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

I know Peeta's smiling when he speaks. "This coming from the functional mute. Oh, the irony."

He gently turns me in his arms so that I'm facing him. "I'm sorry, Katniss," he apologizes. "I truly am. I never meant to hurt you, and trust me, I sure as hell never planned on telling you I loved you on live television . . . it just kinda worked out that way."

"But why?" I ask. "That's what you were planning to say, right? That's what was so important? Peeta, I don't understand what difference it makes."

Hurt flashes heavily in his eyes at my words and I quickly add. "I mean, I don't understand what it difference it makes about the Games."

"It makes you more desirable," Peeta tells me, and I frown. "It'll get you sponsors, Katniss. And your interview tonight sealed the deal. It was almost like we rehearsed it. You avoided Caesar's question about our relationship perfectly. By giving such an ambiguous answer, you heightened the suspense tenfold. And then when you mentioned that night in the rain . . . " Peeta trails off. "I still can't believe you brought it up."

"I really didn't have a choice."

Peeta nods, but says nothing more on the subject, and I'm grateful.

After a beat of silence, Peeta speaks again. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" he asks. "The stars."

I glance up and see that his face is once again tilted up towards the night sky. I follow his gaze. "You can't really see them," I say. The bright lights of the bustling Capitol block them out for the most part.

"But you know they're there," Peeta says softly. "It's nice to know that some things are out of the Capitol's reach."

I worry that he might have spoken too loud, but I realize that with the sharp breeze and the heavy tinkling of the chimes, he couldn't have been heard.

"I kept seeing myself die," he continues. I assume he is referring to why he can't sleep. "Over and over in so many different ways. And then, I'll see others dying . . . because of me. Their blood on my hands. I'm scared, Katniss." He confides it to me in a whisper, like it's some big secret. "I'm scared of what I'll have to do. I know I'll die. That doesn't bother me . . . it's just, when I die, I want to die still being me." He looks down at me, his blue eyes boring into my grey ones. "I just want to show them that I'm not a piece in their games."

I don't know what prompts me to say it, but the words escape my lips before I can stop them. "You'll never change," I tell him. "You'll always be Peeta."

There I go using his first name again.

A brief smile flashes across his face, and he suddenly bends down to brush a feather-soft kiss against my temple. "That means a lot," he says, his breath tickling my ear, "coming from you."

I look up at him and am speared by his crystal blue eyes. They hold me in place, and I can't help but stare into their fathomless depths. I see different emotions these skies of blue. A spark of fear and a hint of something I can't define, but overpowering that are two things that I see clearly—determination and love.

Love.

Again, his interview springs to mind. I know that he's telling the truth. Peeta Mellark is in love with me. His admission was so shy and sweet and so _Peeta_ that there was no way I could question his sincerity.

"Why?" I ask suddenly.

Confusion colors his features. "Why, what?"

"Why me?" I continue. "Why?"

I see comprehension descend upon his face and suddenly he seems wary of me. His arms unravel and fall back to his sides, and I immediately miss their warmth. I feel oddly exposed without him holding me. Peeta takes a step back from me and runs a hand through his curly blonde locks. "Why are you asking?"

"Why aren't you answering?" I shoot back. "Come on, there has to be a reason. Why? Why me? I'm nothing special."

"Don't say that." Peeta almost looks mad. "You are so special, you don't even know."

I frown. "I don't understand."

"You, Katniss Everdeen, are the single most amazing person I know." Peeta smiles a little as he speaks. "You're strong. You're a fighter, a survivor. You have such a big heart, and it's full of love. For Prim. The woods. Your father, even your mother. I just hate that life has given you so much pain. I hate that it has destroyed your trust in people. I hate that it has made you take on so much responsibility so young. I hate that it has caused you to close off your heart to anyone but Prim."

"And you love me anyway." I look at him disbelievingly. It just didn't make sense. "But you're so _nice_."

My emphasis on the word causes Peeta to chuckle and quirk an amused eyebrow at me. "So I can't be nice and love you?"

"You're everything that I'm not, Peeta!" This is bothering me, the fact that he can't see this. "You're open and happy and kind and loving and so completely and utterly selfless! I'm none of those things. I'm closed-off, sullen, rude, and selfish."

"You're reserved," Peeta argues. "And you can be happier than you think or even let yourself be. Admittedly you _are_ rude, but that's only due to your distrust of people. . .mostly," he adds with a slight smirk. Only because I knew it to be true am I not offended by his statement. "And we're all selfish in one way or another."

"You're not!" I argue. "There's not a selfish bone in your body Peeta Mellark."

Peeta smiles. "That's where you're wrong. If I were as selfless as you think, I wouldn't be keeping you up here alone with me." He approaches me, and I tense, like an object of prey might. Why does Peeta always seem to make me feel vulnerable? His arms wrap around me again, and he buries his face in my hair. "If I were selfless, I wouldn't be doing this," he whispers.

I freeze. I don't know what to do. Everything is happening too fast. I can't process it all. His declaration of love for me, my ever-confusing feelings toward him, the Games—oh, god, the Games. But what does this night, this moment, matter right now anyway? The odds that we'll both be dead in days, maybe only hours, is high. So, what does it matter?

Hesitantly, I wrap my arms around his waist and return his embrace. He squeezes me briefly for a moment, and I admire the muscles that made the action happen.

I can't help but think that the Peeta I knew from District 12 would never be so bold. "I didn't think you had the guts to do this or to say all those things," I tell him bluntly.

Peeta laughs a little. "Neither did I, really. Eminent death seems to be the right amount of motivation."

"Don't talk like that," I demand fervently, surprising myself a little. "Don't accept your death."

"There's only one winner Katniss," he reminds me and I stiffen.

He's right. There's only one winner and for me to keep my promise to Prim, Peeta must die.

The thought makes my stomach churn.

"And I want it to be you," he adds softly as he slowly slides his fingertips over my cheek, leaving a trail of warmth.

"Damn it, Peeta," I say, shaking my head, but I don't move away from his embrace. "Why do you have to be such a good person?"

Peeta doesn't say anything, he just gives me a self-deprecating shrug.

I can't take this. "Be my ally." The words escape me without a thought.

"What?" Peeta asks wide-eyed.

"Be my ally," I say again. "We'll be better off together."

"I'll slow you down," Peeta counters.

"No you won't," I say, though I wonder if it's true. It doesn't matter right now.

Peeta remains silent.

"Please, Peeta," I plead softly. "I-I can't not know. In the arena, I have to know that you're alive. I don't want to wait until the end of the day when the anthem plays and see your face in sky."

"Okay," Peeta agrees after another pause. "But what if it comes down to—"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," I interrupt him, not wanting him to finish the thought. I don't even want to think about what we'd do if we're the last two. "Besides, the odds of that happening—"

"Yeah." Peeta shakes his head. "Let's not talk about odds," he says with a small smile and somehow he gets me to laugh a little.

It occurs to me that his arms are still around my waist, holding me close, and my hands are resting on his chest. A flood of emotion hits me in a way that only Peeta can induce, and I step away from him.

"I better get some sleep," I say quickly, disturbed yet again by all the thoughts and feelings Peeta seems to flood me with. "You too. After all we have a big, big, big day tomorrow!" I mock Effie.

Peeta laughs at my poor attempt. "Right."

Like the gentleman he is, Peeta holds the door open and lets me pass before shutting it behind himself. Silently, well, as silently as possible with Peeta trudging along behind me, we make our way back to our rooms. We stand in the middle of the hallway, Peeta's door on the left, mine on the right. We don't move and our eyes meet.

Without thinking about my actions, I open my door and quickly cross the threshold before turning back to Peeta. I hold the door open, a silent invitation. Peeta hesitates for a minute, debating, before he steps into my room. I shut the door and we are both standing in the middle of the room awkwardly.

Oh, how I love it when I act before I think.

"I just—" I try to explain, but I trail off when I meet his eyes. Damn those blue eyes. I feel my stomach flip-flop. "I just don't want to be alone," I finally manage to say.

Peeta smiles in understanding before kicking off his shoes and climbing into bed. Momentarily, I'm stunned by his easy-going nature, but then I realize that this is Peeta. Of course he would be making this as minimally awkward as possible. After all, I'm sure his mind had been racing when I, Katniss Everdeen, the girl that he loved, invited him into her room late in the middle of the night.

Good god, what had he been thinking? A blush spreads across my cheeks and I hope that it's too dark for him to see.

"You just gonna stare at me all night?" he jokes from the bed, his fingers laced behind his head. Okay, now he's purposely mocking me with his comfort in the awkward situation I've put us in.

I scoff, before toeing off my shoes. I climb into bed beside him and for a moment we just lay there, side by side, not touching; but after a few minutes, I feel his warm, strong fingers grasp mine. This comfort that he gives me, this safety that I am begrudgingly, yet selfishly soaking up, overpowers the awkwardness I feel and I mentally say 'to hell with it.'

I shift and lay my head on his chest, throwing an arm over his waist. He makes a sound of surprise before his arms come up to surround me, and I sigh. Oddly enough, I feel relatively relaxed in this position. No one has really held me since my father died. I'm almost always the one holding and comforting Prim and it's truly a rare occurrence when Gale and I share a hug.

Gale. Confusingly, a feeling of wrongness strikes me as I think of Gale while in Peeta's arms.

My mind goes back to Peeta and the warmth of his embrace. I feel safe. I feel protected. I feel loved. A part of me hates that I'm using Peeta for this, but I know I'm selfish. And I remember what he said to me on the roof, how he implied he was being selfish by holding me. Well, at least we're being selfish together.

Suddenly, a very important question pops into my mind. "Peeta?"

Again, what is it with me using his first name all of a sudden?

"Hmm?" Peeta hums, already half-asleep. "What?"

"Do you snore?"

A snort and a brief chortle of laughter escapes him, causing a small laugh to slip from my own lips.

"No." The amusement in his voice is clear as day. "Do you?"

"No."

"Then we're good." Peeta exhales softly, sounding content. His fingers ghost over my back for a moment, sending that fluttery feeling in my stomach into an uncomfortable frenzy. "We're good," he repeats.

My eyelids drift closed and I fall into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

* * *

**(Does happy dance)**

**Progress, people! Progress! Finally, Katniss made progress. It's about time, though, right? She knows and accepts that Peeta is in love with her. Oh, how might that change things, you ask? **

**Too bad I'm not going to tell you! (evil laughter)**

**Just trust me, when I say that more cuddly moments are to come. :D**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	9. Chapter 9

**********A/N: O. M. G.**

**********You guys are ridiculously amazing. Do you want to know why? Oh, okay, I'll tell you . . . I got 40 reviews for the last chapter. Forty. Freaking. Reviews. (squeals)**

**********Dudes, that's _epic!_**

**********Seriously. I was on cloud one hundred gazillion. Screw 'cloud nine.' On a completely random note, does anyone know where that phrase comes from? Weird . . . **

**********Okay, back on topic. You guys are EPIC. EPIC! I was blown away by the response I got from the last chapter, and I'm beyond thrilled that you guys seemed to like it as much as I did! So, thanks again for being epically awesome. :D**

**********So . . . we start the arena this chapter. Oh, goody. Things will be the same and yet different at the same time. You'll see what I mean. The emotional atmosphere will be completely different. The motives for certain actions will be completely different. And maybe, just maybe, I can get Katniss to realize she's in love with a particularly strong, sexy, charming, selfless, completely amazing baker boy . . .**

**********Hmm . . . Peeta, maybe? ;)**

**********Oh, and on a quick side note, I've gotten a few questions as to whether I'm a girl or a guy. I'm a girl. More specifically, I'm an 18 yr. old girl getting ready to start college in the fall. My major, you might ask? English. I know, SHOCKER. ;)**

**********Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once . . . Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 9

My first thought before I open my eyes is that I'm very comfortable. The pillow beneath my head is a little firmer than normal . . . wait, it's a _lot_ firmer than normal . . . and . . . moving? My brain slowly pushes away the fog of sleep, and I realize where I am. Most importantly, I realize who I'm with.

Peeta.

Oh my . . .

Slowly, I lift my head from his chest to peek up at him. Thankfully, he's still asleep. I study his face for a moment, relaxed and blissfully unaware in sleep. His blonde curls have fallen into his eyes, his mouth is slightly opened. I feel a smile pull at the corners of my lips. He looks so . . . adorable.

Ugh. I'm not even awake for five minutes and he's already making my emotions haywire. Since when have I ever thought anything or anyone adorable? Aside from Prim, that is.

Moving silently, I try and escape from Peeta's arms, but at my slight movement, they tighten around me, keeping me close. I huff in exasperation.

"It's not even five in the morning, and you're already scowling," a deep, sleepy voice informs me.

"I am not scowling," I mumble.

"Yeah you are."

"No."

"You're about to."

I look up at Peeta and see that though his eyes are still closed, there's a sleepy smile on his face.

I scowl.

"Yep, I was right."

"Will you let me go?" I ask, causing him to open his eyes and blink a few times, batting the sleep away. "You're kind of trapping me here."

It's as if he's just now realized the intimate position we were in. A faint blush colors his cheeks. "Sorry," Peeta apologizes and his arms slip from around me. I immediately sit up, awkwardness settling in as I realize that I just spent an entire night wrapped up in Peeta's arms . . . and I really didn't mind.

Oh, if my mother were here now . . .

The bed shifts and when I look to my right, I see Peeta sitting up beside me, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He runs a hand through his hair before shaking it out a little bit. "So," he says. "Let the Games begin."

My throat is dry, and I feel my palms begin to sweat at his words. A tangle of nerves tightens in my stomach as I realize that in only a few hours, I will be in the arena. In only a few hours, I might be dead.

It's quite a thought to wake up to.

Suddenly, the door to my room opens and Peeta and I freeze, our eyes wide, as we stare into the equally surprised eyes of our mentor.

"Well, hey there, sweetheart," Haymitch says after a moment. He looks between Peeta and me. "Bad time?"

Peeta and I look at each other before Peeta looks back at Haymitch. "It's not what it looks like."

"Well, I figured that since you two are clothed," Haymitch smirks and I want to punch him.

I practically jump out of the bed. "What do you want, Haymitch?" I snap.

"We need to talk real quick," Haymitch says. "Your stylists will be here in a few minutes, and they'll take you up to the roof. A hovercraft will be waiting, and you'll be taken to the arena."

I swallow at the mention of the Games, so very near in my future.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there," Haymitch advises. "You're neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water. Got it?"

"And after that?" I ask.

"Stay alive."

The same advice he first gave us on the train. It sounded stupid then. Now? Not so much. In fact, it's the only advice he can truly give. Stay alive. That's the only way you win.

Peeta and I nod. What else is there to say?

Haymitch breaks the short silence, looking at Peeta. "You better get to your room, kid," he says. "Portia will be here any minute."

Peeta glances at me and gives me a quick smile before disappearing out the door.

This leaves Haymitch and me alone. He's looking at me oddly, and it makes me uncomfortable. It's like he's trying to see something that's not really there. "That boy loves you," he finally says.

I look at him, frowning, uncomfortable with the reminder. "I know."

Haymitch nods. "Don't screw it up, then."

And with that statement Haymitch turns around and leaves. I barely have a second to wonder what he could have possibly meant before Cinna comes through the door. He has me change into a simple shift, and then we're going up the stairs to the roof. I don't see Peeta anywhere. This bothers me. The fact that the last time I might ever see him was earlier this morning. We'd barely spoken. I don't like that I didn't get to say goodbye.

A hovercraft appears out of nowhere, like the day in the woods when I'd seen the redhaired Avox. A ladder drops down, and I grab onto it. Immediately, a current cuts through my body, and I'm frozen. I can't move a muscle as the ladder hauls me up.

When I reach the entrance to the hovercraft, I'm still attached unmoving to the ladder. A woman in a white lab coat approaches me with a syringe. "This is just your tracker, Katniss. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.

Seriously? I couldn't move if I tried.

However, my stillness does nothing to detract from the sharp, stinging pain as she injects the tracker deep under the skin of my forearm. Cinna is pulled up next, and then we are shown to a breakfast area that has been set up.

I'm sure that the smell of the food is supposed to make my mouth water. However, this morning all it does is make my stomach churn. Either way, I force myself to eat as much as I can. This is the last guaranteed meal that I will have.

I've just about stuffed myself when the windows of the hovercraft suddenly black out, and I realize that I'm near the arena. I force myself to swallow my food and it sits unpleasantly in my stomach. When we land in an underground tunnel, Cinna and I are escorted through the catacombs beneath the arena to my Launch Room, or, if you're from District 12, the Stockyard, where animals are led to slaughter. Great comparison, right? Definitely a confidence builder.

Once we're in my Launch Room, they leave Cinna and me alone. There's a refreshment table set up, but the thought of eating any more makes me sick. The room is immaculately clean and shiny. Brand new. Just for me. I will be the only tribute to ever occupy this room.

You see, each arena is only ever used once before they are made into historic sites. People of the Capitol can tour them for fun, a vacation. They can see the Launch Rooms, walk through the arena. See where tributes died. There's even battle reenactments . . . I hear the food is excellent.

My clothes for the arena are laid out on a small table. Cinna had no knowledge or hand in their choosing. He helps me dress. Tawny pants, a green shirt, a thick brown belt, a long black jacket made of a seemingly thin and flimsy material that hangs down mid-thigh.

"It's made to reflect body heat," Cinna tells me. "Expect some cold nights."

To my slight surprise, but great relief, the leather boots that they provide are almost as good as my hunting boots at home. They form to my feet and have a slight rubber insole. Good for running.

Cinna has me move around in the clothes to get used to them. I walk, run a circle around the room, and move my arms in all directions, getting a feel for them.

"How do they feel?" he asks.

"Fine," I say. "Perfect fit."

Cinna asks me if I want any food, but I shake my head. However, I do accept the glass of water he offers me. I take a seat on the small couch in the corner of the room, and Cinna takes a seat beside me. I slowly sip my water as we sit in silence, waiting.

My heart rate slowly speeds up the longer we wait. The waiting is torture. Just . . . _waiting_. Waiting to be thrown into the arena. Waiting to die. There's nothing I can do to prepare for it, no matter what training, no matter what skills I have. When it all comes down to it . . . all I can do is sit and wait.

Unthinkingly, I grasp Cinna's hand and hold it tightly. Cinna returns the strength of my hold, and we continue to sit together in silence until a pleasant voice informs me to prepare for launch.

My mounting nerves catapult into pure terror. It's like ice in my veins, and I'm frozen. I'm sure my fear shows on my face because Cinna takes it gently in his hands. "Remember what Haymitch said," he tells me calmly. "Run. Find water. Stay alive."

I nod my head and swallow thickly.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he mumbles and fishes something out of his pocket.

My eyes widen as I realize it's my mockingjay pin. I had it laid out on my dresser in my room. In the haste of the morning I'd forgotten about it. "Here," he says. "It took some convincing with the officials, but eventually they cleared it. They thought it could be used as a weapon, but I was able to persuade them otherwise."

He smiles at me and pins it to my jacket.

I give him a weak smile in return before stepping onto the platform that will raise me into the arena.

"Remember," Cinna says softly. "I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you."

"Truly?" I whisper, fear taking away my voice, though Cinna's words comfort me.

"Truly." Cinna kisses me on the forehead. "Good luck, girl on fire."

A glass tube suddenly begins to lower around me, severing my connection with Cinna. My hand finds the glass, fruitlessly trying to reach him. Cinna places his hand on the glass, mirroring my action, giving me one last comforting gesture.

And then I feel the platform begin to rise.

My heart is racing so fast I'm afraid I'll just keel over and die right here. My mother's mentioned something like that once, a heart attack, she'd called it. A cool breeze suddenly hits my face and the bright light of the arena blinds me for a moment. I quickly blink, my eyes adjusting to the light.

And then the voice of legendary announcer Claudius Templesmith resounds throughout the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

I gulp, though I try to school my features in case there's a camera on me. They usually do a quick sweep of all twenty-four tributes when they're on the platforms. A countdown appears in the air in front of me, and I watch as the seconds tick by.

Sixty seconds. A lone minute. One minute to get my bearings before all hell breaks loose. I have one more minute of living that's guaranteed. Well, unless I step off my platform before the sixty seconds is up. If I do, the platform is wired to explode. One year, when I was ten, that very thing happened to a tribute from District 6. She'd been shaking so badly she'd lost her footing.

Boom.

It's with this thought that I plant my feet firmly on the platform. My eyes take in my surroundings. Directly ahead of me and the rest of the tributes is the Cornucopia, a gold, open cone-shaped structure that's probably about twenty feet tall at the mouth. Its horn is curved upwards.

Surrounding the Cornucopia are supplies. Food. Water. Tents. Blankets. Weapons. Everything you could possibly need to survive the Games. The further out from the Cornucopia you get, the more the goodies shrink in value. For example, only a few feet in front of me is a three-foot square sheet of plastic.

The tributes are spread an equal distance apart in front of the Cornucopia, letting us all get a good look at the supplies, which are so, so tempting. My eyes zero in on a glint of silver that lies on top of some blankets.

A quiver of arrows.

The bow is right beside the quiver, an arrow already strung.

_That's mine, _I think. I have to get it. That bow is how I win these Games. It's my lifeline. I need that bow.

I hear Haymitch in my head, growling at me. "Get the hell out of there. Find water. Stay alive."

But I _need_ that bow.

The Cornucopia is only forty yards in front of me. I'm a fast sprinter, the fastest girl in school, though there are a few girls that can beat me in distance races. But this is only forty yards. This is my race. I can do this. I can get that bow. Maybe Haymitch would have told me to go for it if he'd seen me run.

I glance around quickly, trying to get a hold of the rest of my surroundings. I'm aware that the sixty seconds is winding down, even if it's been the slowest sixty seconds of my entire life. Behind the tributes in front of me I see nothing, indicating a sharp slope or maybe a cliff. To my right is a large lake. To my left and back I see sparse, piney woods.

That's where Haymitch wants me to go.

_But I need my bow._

It's the only one that I see. It's my salvation.

I decide to go for it. With my speed, if I get a good jump when the gong sounds, I'll reach the Cornucopia before everyone else.

But then what? My bow is not a close range weapon, and the bloodbath at the Cornucopia is always close quarter combat. Fists. Swords. Knives. Bludgeons. Exactly the kind of battle that I can't win.

I glare at the bow and arrows, as if I can will them to fly into my hands.

Suddenly, the countdown cuts through my thoughts and seems to resound in my ears.

_Ten_.

I've got to get the bow.

_Nine_.

It's how I'll win.

_Eight_.

It's mine.

_Seven_.

A glimpse of blonde out of the corner of my eye causes my head to turn. I meet Peeta's eyes. He's shaking his head.

_Six_.

Peeta's telling me to run.

_Five_.

He wants me to leave the bow.

_Four_.

What am I going to do?

_Three_.

I'm getting that bow.

_Two_.

But Peeta . . .

_One_.

The gong goes off and I leap off my platform. I realize going for the bow is a bad idea, but I'm not leaving without something. I grab the sheet of plastic in front of me and the loaf of bread beside it. Fifteen yards in front of me I see a bright orange backpack and I lunge for it.

But another hand reaches it just as I do. I grapple over the pack with the boy from 9 before suddenly he stills, his eyes wide, his mouth open. A warm, sticky substances sprinkles onto my face. Blood.

He falls over, his grasp now slack. I yank the pack up and onto my shoulder and start running. I'd seen the knife sticking out of his back and there was only one person here who could throw knives like that. Clove, the girl from District 2.

I'm running full-tilt toward the woods now. All of my fear of the Games has condensed into one solid mass of terror of this one girl. I hear a whisper of a blade in the air and instinctively raise the backpack protectively over my head. The blade lodges in it, but I don't bother to yank it out. I continue to run toward the woods. My legs are propelling me forward at a speed I didn't know I possessed. Maybe it's the fear, the adrenaline pumping through my veins like fire.

I pause briefly at the edge of the woods. I don't see Peeta, and I feel my stomach drop, but I can't focus on that now. The point is that no one is following me, even if I didn't expect them too. They'd stay at the Cornucopia. They had other tributes to kill. Evidence of my thoughts is on the ground. Bloodied, dead bodies are already strewn about in front of the Cornucopia.

I hope that Peeta isn't one of them.

Although, as I turn around and begin to run deeper in the woods, the thought crosses my mind that maybe it would be better for Peeta to die. That way, I wouldn't have to worry about killing him myself. I shake my head clear of these thoughts. These thoughts don't matter right now. What matters is putting distance between myself and the other tributes and finding a source of water.

I find a steady jog that I know I can keep up for a long while. The woods are my domain, my realm of expertise. I alternate jogging and walking, surprised by my stamina. I still feel like I could go for a while longer. All that Capitol food, I guess.

My feet carry me deeper and deeper into the valley, and the trees gradually thicken. Lots of pine and hardwoods. Most I know, and yet some are unfamiliar to me. I'm getting worried though. I've been on the move for hours, and I haven't seen a single drop of water.

I frown as I remember the lake at the Cornucopia. What if it was the only source of water in the arena? It wasn't a farfetched idea. The lake being the only source of water ensured bloodshed. The tributes would all have to meet if they didn't want to die of dehydration.

I continue to walk for another hour or so, ignoring the dryness in my throat. My eyes continuously glance about, looking for any sign of water. I hear the soft rustle of a bush and immediately spin and draw my knife. It's a relatively long blade with a serrated edge near the handle. Good for cutting if I ever have the need.

My foe that hops out of the bushes is a rabbit. "Oh, am I glad to see you," I whisper. The rabbit has to get water somewhere, right?

I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear a voice. "Feeling's mutual."

My eyes dart up and from the bushes Peeta emerges looking a little worse for wear.

But he's alive.

His clothes are ruffled, and he's bleeding from a cut above his eye and a gash on his left bicep. A bruise is forming on his cheekbone, but other than that he's perfectly fine. I feel a smile spread across my face at the sight of him and before I know what I'm doing I'm closing the distance between us and throwing my arms around him.

"Hey," Peeta chuckles. "It's almost like you didn't expect to see me again." Even though his words suggest nonchalance, his arms are so tight around me that it's almost difficult to breathe.

"Don't say that," I chide him, shaking my head. "Don't even joke about it."

"Sorry," he apologizes softly, burying his face my hair. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

I pull back, well, as much as I can in his tight embrace, and look at him oddly. "Huh?"

"Well, you see, I come bearing gifts," Peeta explains. "Just a little insurance so you'll let me stay with you."

Now I'm really confused.

Peeta lets me go, and reaches down to pick something up from the ground. When he straightens up and holds it out to me, I can hardly believe my eyes.

My bow and arrows.

"You sorta knocked them out of my hands when you attacked me," Peeta teases with a grin.

I take the bow from him, running a hand over the cool metal. I swing the quiver of arrows over my shoulder, and clutch the bow in my hands. "Thanks," I say.

Peeta shrugs, a shy smile gracing his features. "No problem."

My eyes settle on the cut above his eye that's slowly seeping blood. "You need to put some pressure on that," I say.

In response, Peeta reaches a hand up and touches it lightly, only to wince. He looks at the blood on his fingers, almost as if he doesn't believe he's bleeding in the first place. I roll my eyes and hand him my bow and quiver to hold before I shrug the backpack off my shoulders.

"Scared me half to death when you went for that," Peeta tells me, and I look up at him curiously. "That's what got me this," he says, motioning to the cut on his arm as I unzip the backpack. "District 7's axe clipped me."

The thought of Peeta dodging the slice of a heavy axe makes my gut clench.

I focus my thoughts on the contents of my pack. I hope that there's a bottle of water in it. Haymitch's order to find water was not merely a suggestion. I won't last long without it. I amend that thought. _Peeta and I_ won't last long without it. We'll be able to make it for a few days suffering the effects of dehydration, but eventually we'll die. A week tops is the longest we'll last without water.

So, naturally, when I unscrew the half-gallon water bottle in the pack, it's empty. Bone dry.

"Figures," Peeta mutters.

I continue to pull items from the pack. There's a package of crackers and beef jerky, which eases my mind a little, though because Peeta is with me I'll have to be even more conscientious about making it last. A bottle of iodine. A box of matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. A sleeping bag made of the same heat-reflective material as my jacket.

"We'll have to camouflage that pack," Peeta says. "That orange will still show in the dark."

I nod in agreement. "You'd do a better job of that than me," I say. "We'll have to wait until we can find something to use though."

"Mud would be best," Peeta comments. "But first we need water."

"Yeah," I agree. All of this is obvious to me, which is why I haven't voiced any of these thoughts. But I know that Peeta does his best thinking aloud, so I let him talk.

I put everything back into the pack, but as I'm about to sling it over my shoulder, Peeta stops me. He offers the bow and quiver back to me. "Trade you," he says with a small smile.

I take my bow with a grin and swing the quiver of arrows over my shoulder. Peeta shoulders the backpack, and we're just about to get moving when the cannons begin.

A cannon fire signals the death of a tribute. However, since the battle at the Cornucopia is so chaotic, the Gamemakers always wait until the bloodbath is over before firing off the cannon. Peeta and I count the number of shots.

One . . . two . . . after the eleventh cannon, the air is silent.

"Eleven," Peeta says quietly.

My expression is grim. "Thirteen left."

* * *

**And let the worst first date in history commence!**

**Yes, I really do see their time in the arena as a date. A terrible, death-thwarting, first date. Seriously. I managed to work flirting into the next chapter. Surprised? So was I. :D**

**Anywho, the Hunger Games have officially begun! Woo! **

**Review? Make my world go round? Pretty please? **

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Oh, how I love you all.**

**You guys are phenomenal! Last chapter was my most reviewed chapter ever. In all my stories! ****Do you know how giddy that makes me? I'm bouncing, people. Bouncing. **

**I cannot accurately express in words how freakin' awesome all of you are. I mean, really. 50 reviews for a single chapter?**

**Damn, that's awesome.**

**And I'm incredibly lucky to have you guys as readers. :)**

**Going on to the chapter, it's definitely filled with a variety of emotions. It's lighthearted and serious at the same time. I think you'll all be satisfied with lovely flirty moments (giggles). And then you'll promptly want to give Peeta a big hug and tell him that everything's going to be okay. Because, yes, you will find out exactly how Peeta managed to get the bow and arrows.**

**************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 10

Peeta and I walk through the forest for the rest of the day. It's surprising to me how much his presence sets me at ease. He's actually a relatively silent companion, which confuses me a little. Peeta's a talker, and while I'm grateful that he has enough insight to keep his mouth shut (his footsteps are loud enough as it is), I'm worried. He has a perplexed, sad look on his face, and for the past few hours I've been worried that he's going to slip into that broody persona I glimpsed the second day on the train.

We continue walking until I hear the nightlife of the forest awaken. There's the hoot of an owl and the snap of branches made by a heavy paw. There will be competition for the rabbits. It's too soon to tell whether I'll be predominantly prey or predator in these woods.

"Where are we going to try and sleep?" Peeta asks, speaking for the first time in hours.

"In a tree."

Peeta stops walking, raising his eyebrows. "A tree?"

"Yeah, a tree." I scan the area around us and see a clump of willows. Their billowy boughs will make for great cover. "Like that one," I say, pointing to the largest willow of the bunch.

Peeta examines the tree. "Okay." He seems nervous. "You go first."

I raise my eyebrows and feel a small smirk pull at my lips. "You're not afraid of heights, are you?"

"What?" Peeta is immediately too blasé. "Me? Afraid of heights? Ha, absolutely not."

"Uh huh," I say disbelievingly. "Yeah, I don't believe you."

"Okay, okay," Peeta admits sheepishly, his cheeks tinged red. "When I was little, Rye pushed me out of the apple tree in the backyard."

My eyes widened. "Seriously? How far up were you?"

Peeta's blush deepens. "I was probably four or five at the time. It was only a couple feet. Back then, it was terrifying drop."

I laugh, something I never thought I'd do while in the arena. "Did Rye at least get into trouble?"

Peeta frowns. "You know, I really don't remember. I think I hit my head."

"That explains so much," I tease with a grin and Peeta just shakes his head, taking my ribbing good-naturedly like he always does.

I examine the base of the tree, following its limbs all the way to the top, planning which branches I'll use to climb. I see a large, strong forked branch about halfway up that should hold both Peeta's and my weight. I look over my shoulder at Peeta, who is alternating nervous glances at me and then the tree, though now I think he's overdoing it on purpose.

"Just watch where I climb, okay?" I tell him with a smile before jumping up into the tree. I easily make my way to the branch that I chose. It takes less than three minutes. I look back down at Peeta who is staring at me oddly, and it makes me want to blush. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says with a smile.

My eyes narrow. "Were you checking me out?"

Peeta's eyes widen theatrically. "Me? No. What kind of guy do you think I am?"

"The kind that's a terrible liar," I say, even though I know that when it counts, Peeta can lie better than anyone.

Peeta drops the act and grins at me. "What else was I supposed to look at?"

I flush. "I-I don't know! The trees!"

"You told me to watch where you climbed," he reminds me. "I was just paying attention."

I roll my eyes. "Well prove it and get up here."

A couple minutes later, Peeta is sitting beside me. "You made this look easy."

"It is easy," I shrug. "You're just too fat."

"I am not fat!" Peeta says defensively.

I laugh. "Okay, you're heavier and therefore cannot climb as well as me."

"That's better," Peeta grins. "Cause this is all muscle."

"Oh, I know," I say immediately, the words escaping my lips before I can stop them and I blush furiously, prompting Peeta to laugh.

"Shut up," I glare at him. "Or I'll push you out of the tree."

"I'll take you with me."

"You wouldn't," I dare him boldly, and Peeta merely raises his eyebrows.

"Wouldn't I?"

I'm quickly discovering that Peeta has a much better poker face than I do.

We continue to pass the time like this, teasing each other like we aren't in an arena to fight to the death. I wonder what the viewers are thinking. I know the people back home are probably thinking that we're fools, refusing to see reality. However, I bet that the Capitol is eating this up right now. Due to the willow's branches, I doubt that they can get a good look at us, but I have no doubt that they've been broadcasting our conversation. We actually sound like the bickering lovers we're hinting at being, though I wonder where we stand now that Peeta has admitted his love for me.

This thought causes me to pause and go quiet. Peeta notices, but doesn't say anything. It's almost as if I'd forgotten. Peeta Mellark is in love with me, for real. The looks he gives me, his occasional tender touches. They all stem from true feelings. I suddenly wonder what he's been thinking of my reactions to his words and gestures. Am I leading him on? No. No, he knows that we're just friends. Well, he knows that he's just my friend. That's enough for him, right?

But is that enough for me?

I immediately kill that particular train of thought in my mind. There's no room for it here. Not in the Games. It's pointless. There's _no_ point. _None_. Why even entertain the thought? I try and purge all thoughts and feelings concerning Peeta from my mind.

Regrettably, it does not work.

Night has fallen and I feel the temperature around me drop. I roll out the sleeping bag and stuff the backpack down at the bottom. Now comes the tricky part.

"You get in first," I whisper, the black night around us making me feel required to keep my voice low. That, and the Career Pack is notorious for hunting down tributes at night. I don't know if any are nearby and if they are, I don't want them to know we're here.

Peeta nods and slides into the bag, making as much room for me as possible, but it's still going to be a tight fit. I blame his broad shoulders. Nonetheless, I manage to slip into the bag beside him. Well, technically I'm half on top of him, but that's just the only way that we're both going to fit into the sleeping bag. My head is resting on his chest like last night, my arm is thrown over his waist, our legs are tangled together . . . and yet our position doesn't really bother me. Despite my earlier thoughts and attempts at clamping down on all the odd feelings that Peeta seems to promote within me, my heart is racing and I feel much warmer than I think I should, even with the heat-reflective sleeping bag. I can't help the feeling of comfort and safety that envelopes me.

Peeta's arms are wrapped around me, securing me to him. I feel his lips brush my hair and my stomach tightens in response. I'm certain that he can feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest. We're definitely pressed up against each other tightly enough for my thought to actually be plausible.

Thankfully, the anthem begins to play, signaling the end of the day in the arena. Both Peeta and I look up at the sky, waiting for all the fallen tributes faces to appear. What seems to be a floating screen appears in the night sky, but it's really a hovercraft with a large television hooked onto it. At home, the Capitol shows a full death recap, complete with how each and every tribute met their end. However, here in the arena, that's seen as unfair and a disadvantage. For example, if they showed me killing someone with a bow, then every tribute in the arena would know my weapon of choice. My secret would be out. So, here in the arena, we only see a headshot of the tribute, the same picture used when they announced our training scores. It's just that this time, instead of their training score being under their name, it's only their district number.

The girl from District 3 is the first to appear in the sky. I resist making a noise of contempt. They show the order of fallen tributes by district. Since they showed 3 first, that means that both tributes from 1 and 2 are still alive. The Careers.

I'm surprised when the next face in the sky is the boy from 4, but what surprises me even more is how Peeta's body goes rigid at the sight of the now dead tribute. I immediately know that there's a story there, and I'm silently debating if I'm going to ask him about it as the tributes continue to appear in the sky.

The boy from 5, both tributes from 6 and 7, and the boy from 8 all appear in the sky. Both from 9. The final face to appear is the girl from 10, and I'm slightly surprised that the boy from 10 didn't die as well since he has a limp.

"Okay, so who's left?" I ask quietly. "Five Careers. Foxface. Thresh and Rue . . ."

Rue . . . so she'd made it. This fact makes me feel relieved.

"The boy from 3, the girl from 8, and the boy from 10." Peeta lists the last of the remaining tributes that I didn't remember in a soft voice.

"What about the boy from 4?" I ask, remembering his reaction to seeing the tribute's face in the sky.

"He's dead."

"I know."

"I killed him."

"I guessed."

I'm struck by the need to be able to see his face, to see his reaction to our conversation. I've never been good with people, and I've always had trouble reading emotions. After all, I have enough of a time trying to figure out how _I_ feel, let alone try and decipher someone else's feelings. But there's something about Peeta that makes me want to understand.

"It was all so fast . . ." Peeta holds me tighter as he speaks quietly, so quietly that I doubt any Capitol microphone can pick up his words. His words right now are meant only for my ears and the thought warms me in an unfamiliar way.

"I knew you wanted the bow," he continues.

"You told me not to go for it," I say, keeping my voice as low as his. "You were shaking your head."

"I stood a better chance at surviving the fight at the Cornucopia," Peeta says by way of explanation. "You're quick, but you're not big enough for one on one with the Careers."

I huff in indignation at his words, but more so at the truth in them. "So what happened?"

"I ran into the boy from 7 first," Peeta says and I remember the gash on his arm. "We hardly had time to fight before he fell. Marvel from 1 got him with a spear, though I think he was aiming for me."

"I don't think anyone else can use a bow," he says. "Because when I got to them, no one had even bothered with them." Peeta pauses. "I'd just slung the quiver over my shoulder when he tackled me."

I can tell that Peeta is reliving every moment of the fight, and I'm furious with myself for letting my morbid curiosity get the better of me. Why do I always seem to hurt him in one way or another?

"We fought for a bit," Peeta continues. "It was almost like a wrestling match back home . . . until he drew the knife . . ."

My mind immediately goes to the cut above his eye.

"I almost lost," Peeta says so softly I have to strain to hear him. "I just—I couldn't—I had so many chances to gain the advantage, but I just . . . I just couldn't make myself take them. But then he cut me . . . and . . . if it's possible . . . it made everything more real . . . the fact that I was going to die . . . and I realized that I wasn't ready. I-I wanted to live, so I the next time he lunged at me, I grabbed his arm and . . ."

Peeta trails off, leaving the ending untold.

I don't ask.

Instead, I feel guilt, thick and heavy in my veins. I want to make Peeta's pain go away. He doesn't deserve this. His heart is far too kind, too loving, to have to deal with this pain. I hate that I made him relive the killing all over again. I'm so angry at myself that for a moment I'm almost shaking with it.

The Capitol. It's all the Capitol's fault. They're making Peeta feel this way. It's their fault that he's in this position. He's hating himself, I know it. He's going to feel guilty for the death of the boy from District 4 until the day he dies, and I don't like the idea of Peeta carrying around that weight for however long he has yet to live. Peeta shouldn't carry this burden. I hate the Capitol. I hate them for making someone so pure of heart feel like he's a murderer.

I desperately want to make his pain go away. It's extremely important to me. To make him realize that he's still Peeta, the boy with the bread, the boy who saved me.

Almost as if it has a mind of its own, my hand reaches up through the darkness to come to rest on his cheek. The skin is wet and I know that he's been crying silent tears, the kind that simply fall without consent.

"You're still Peeta," I tell him softly, repeating my words from the roof. "You'll always be Peeta."

I don't know if my words make him feel any better, but I feel his hand wrap around mine and give it a squeeze. Our joined hands come to rest on his chest, right over his heart. Peeta doesn't say a word, but I think I've helped him. It's this thought that causes me to allow myself to fall asleep in the intimate position we're in.

_Snap!_

I jump awake so quickly that I might have fallen out of the tree if Peeta hadn't steadied me, clutching me to him. I know we've only been asleep for a couple hours, four at the most, but I feel surprisingly well-rested. However, I hardly have time to dwell on this fact before the snapping starts again.

Both my head and Peeta's turns toward the sound. It's not the sound of a snapping twig as a heavy foot falls on it. This snapping is the sound of someone breaking limbs from a tree. Silently, Peeta and I wait, and I ignore the fact that somehow during our brief slip into unconsciousness, I basically ended up right on top of Peeta.

There's some scuffling and then a spark. A fire blooms and I think of every single curse word that I know or have heard Gale say. What do they think they're doing?

"Are they crazy?" Peeta breathes incredulously.

I ask myself that same question. Honestly, I'm debating leaving the tree and killing whomever it is myself. I realize that it's cold, and not everyone has a heat-reflective sleeping bag, let alone someone to share it with and double the heat produced, but still . . . grit your teeth and tough it out!

The Careers hunt at night. The fire is a beacon shouting, "Kill me! I'm right here!"

Whoever the fire starter is, is just asking to get killed, but they are not the only ones in danger. The fire is only a hundred yards from the tree that Peeta and I are in. If the Careers find him or her, they could easily find us as well. We're in danger too.

"Should we move?" Peeta whispers into my hair, and I ignore the tingly feeling the action causes. I really don't need Peeta making me feel emotional and oddly girly right now. I need to be the rational hunter. I push away every funny feeling that deals with Peeta and focus on our situation.

Should we move?

There's both a risk in staying and a risk in moving. If we stay, we would be sitting ducks if anyone discovered us, especially if they caught us by surprise. And I choose our hiding spot too well because of the billowy limbs of the willow tree. Even if we were able to hear their approach, I wouldn't have a clear enough view through the boughs to get a shot off.

However, if I can't see them, that means they can't see me.

It's this thought that causes me to shake my head. "No," I breathe. We're staying in the tree.

Peeta and I watch the fire for the rest of the night. It's not safe to go back to sleep with the fire giving away our location so near. I'm just beginning to think that the fire starter, whose death I am still debating on carrying out myself, made it through the night, when I hear multiple sets of loud footfalls and hoots of excitement. By the sound of it, the Career Pack has seen the fire. It's not hard for me to guess which tributes have allied in the arena. Cato. Clove. Marvel. Glimmer. The girl from 4.

By the pleading that cries into the night, I know that the fire starter is the girl from 8. She continues to plead for a few minutes, when her cries are abruptly cut off. I surprise myself by burying my face into Peeta's chest, and his arms tighten around me.

Somehow it's more horrifying to listen to someone's death than to witness it. With only the sounds of their death, your imagination gets to run wild with different gruesome scenarios. Did Cato kill her with a sword? Run her through? Or was it Clove and one of her knives that silenced the girl forever? Where they quick about it, or did they toy with her, taunting her with her eminent death, building her fear? Judging by her pleading, I think it's the latter and the thought causes my stomach to lurch.

A cannon sounds.

My disgust of the Careers morphs quickly into fear when I hear their footsteps and voices begin to get louder. Closer. The dim light of pre-dawn allows me to see Peeta's face more clearly, but all I can see are wide blue eyes reflecting fear right back at me. Peeta and I don't move, hardly daring to breathe as the Careers stop to talk right in front of our tree.

They have flashlights and torches, but the extra light only allows me to see their feet and legs clearly. My heart is thumping so loud in my chest that I swear the Careers should be able to hear it. From my position, which is almost directly on top of Peeta, I can feel his heartbeat hammering away just as quickly as mine. Our black sleeping bag may be great camouflage in the night, but in the light of day not so much. Our safe haven could quickly turn into our downfall. Judging by my own internal clock and the very dim, slivery light beginning to break through the dark, I can tell that we have mere minutes before the sun comes up, giving away our position.

"Twelve down and eleven to go!" one of them says, causing a round of cheers to break out.

They are only ten yards from our tree.

"Wish it'd been the girl from 12," one of the girls speaks, and I know it's Clove. "She didn't look too bright, what with all that twirling and giggling she did on stage. Ugh, I wanted to puke."

"I want to know how she got that eleven," another says, a boy.

"Bet you Lover Boy knows," someone sneers. Cato.

"We should find him first."

There are murmurs of agreement.

"Oh please, we find one, we find the other," one of the girls scoffs. Glimmer, maybe? "Did anyone see where he ran off too?"

"No," Clove growls frustrated. "I just saw him gut the boy from 4. He's pretty handy with a knife."

Peeta tenses at her harsh words and I flinch.

"Who cares?" Cato snaps. "I just want to find the girl."

"Yeah, we all know you want to be the one to kill her," Glimmer says, sounding annoyed. "Just because she beat your training score, it's got your panties all in a twist."

There's the sharp sound of skin meeting skin, and judging by Glimmer's outraged scream, Cato just slapped her. Cato's action immediately starts an argument, particularly from the other boy, which has to be Marvel. It kind of makes sense. Glimmer is his district partner.

Finally, the third girl, which by process of elimination I can determine is from District 4, has had enough and breaks up the argument. "We're wasting time! Stop bitching between yourselves and let's get moving! We're not going to find either one of them at this rate!"

The Careers settle down after a moment more of bickering. Not a one of them can stand not getting the last word. If my life weren't in eminent peril, I might have found it within myself to be annoyed.

"Fine," Cato snaps. "Let's go."

The Careers break into a run. Peeta and I don't move until we can't hear them anymore. Hesitantly, I shift out of the sleeping bag, ignoring the fact that I basically have to shimmy my way out. I feel a blush heat my cheeks as I scramble/shimmy over Peeta to be free of the confining sleeping bag.

I see the look on his face. He's biting his lip and his eyes are that odd shade of dark blue that I remember from when I'd placed my hand over his lips in my room to prevent him from ordering anything else into the microphone.

I feel the need to apologize, though for what, I'm not sure. "Sorry," I say.

Peeta looks like he can't decide whether to laugh or cry out in frustration. Odd.

"It's okay," he eventually says, and my blush deepens for whatever reason.

We jump down from the tree a few minutes later. My quiver is slung over my shoulder, and I grip my bow expertly in my hands. Peeta shoulders the backpack, one that we really need to camouflage soon. I begin to make my way to my snares that I'd set up the day before. After seeing the rabbit, I'd set a few snares. Peeta hadn't been talking and it had given me something to do.

I know that it's probably a bad idea to check the snares, but the hunter in me makes me do so. I can't resist. Besides, I can't let the Careers know that I was here. Luckily, my hunter instincts pay off and one of my snares holds a fat rabbit prisoner.

Peeta and I share a triumphant smile.

But now, what to do? The idea of lighting a fire is ridiculous, especially considering the death of District 8 not fifteen minutes ago . . . and then I remember her fire . . .

The embers should still be hot.

I jog to her campsite and sure enough, the coals are still hot. I quickly make a spit and then hang it over the smoldering fire. Peeta and I wait for the rabbit to cook in silence for a while, but Peeta breaks it.

"Seems like we're a hot topic," he says, referring to the conversation we'd heard between the Careers.

"Joy," I say sarcastically. "And I'm not giggly," I add defensively as I remember Clove's words.

Peeta answers straight-faced. "Definitely not. You, Katniss Everdeen, are many things. Giggly isn't one of them."

"I was just dizzy from all the twirling," I continue to defend myself, and I can tell Peeta's fighting a grin.

"Of course."

I see that the rabbit is done and take it off the smoldering fire. "Come on," I say. "We better get moving. We still need water."

In reaction to my words, Peeta swallows. "Yeah, that'd be a good idea."

I start walking, munching on the rabbit as I walk. For a while, Peeta doesn't say anything, but I know his silence can't last long.

I'm right.

"So are you gonna let me have any of that?" he asks, referring to the rabbit.

I shrug. "I caught it," I answer ambiguously. "Technically it's all mine."

Peeta pouts.

"Don't make that face," I say firmly. Peeta pouts more, his blue eyes bigger than ever. "Seriously."

After another few seconds of pouting, I can't take it anymore. "Oh, fine, here," I say. I'd already eaten half. "You look ridiculous."

Peeta's pout morphs into a grin. "Thank you," he says, sounding far too pleased with himself as he takes the rabbit from me.

I roll my eyes, and can't help but mutter, "I hope you choke on it."

Peeta's chuckle is all I hear as we continue into the woods.

* * *

**Yay! And the First Date from Hell continues!**

**So, I have addressed how Peeta got the bow and arrows. Poor Peeta, he killed someone. It always bugged me in the books that we never found out if he really did actually kill anyone. I mean, it's alluded to that he killed the girl from 8 (though it was merciful). And when I was re-reading the book I noted how Katniss was surprised that the guy from 4 died. Then I was like, "Hey, I'm gonna have Peeta kill that guy!" Yes, that's really what I said.**

**Anywho, I thought it was good for his character arc, especially for my version of Peeta.**

**So . . . yeah, I guess that's it! ;)**

**Review? Pretty please? Next chapter PK face the horrors of dehydration and Katniss has mutinous thoughts . . . will she act on them? *cue dramatic music***

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hi guys! How ya doin'? Me? I am super excited right now! And I feel the need to gush, so can I? Please? Okay, so here I go . . .**

**As some of you know, I'm currently writing my version of _Catching Fire_. First things first, it's turning out to be a behemoth, let me tell you. I've got 22 chapters in the bank and I'm at 94,000 words. And guess what, I've _still_ got probably another 10 chapters to go! Yes, my version of _Catching Fire_ is a _lot_ longer than the original. Anyway, back to my gushing. I'm gushing because I've written some truly awesome scenes that I cannot wait for you guys to read! We've got a wonderful fight between PK (oh, the passion). We've got a fantastic fight between Peeta and Haymitch (so much fun when they're angry). We've got an episode of Peeta vs. Gale (don't you all want to know how _that_ turns out). We've got two beautifully dramatic meltdowns for Katniss (yes, I'm very mean to her). And, just to top it all off, I gave PK a dog . . . technically a wolf, but the point is that I gave them a pet! Why? Because every great couple needs a loyal furry companion. So . . . yeah, lots of fun stuff I've been writing. Really, it's just the relationship that I've developed for PK. In the books, we never got to see them happy and secure in love. Even on fanfic that kind of relationship is hard to find, but I have written an united, confident PK in love and it puts _such_ a different spin on things!**

**(giggles excitedly)**

**Okay . . . And now that I've completely turned your attention away from _this_ story, let's try and get back on track. This chapter is a shortie, I know, but I will always end a chapter where it makes sense to, and the ending for this one was just perfect, so I had to cut the chapter there. Anywho, we've got some interesting thoughts going on in Katniss's head. Mutiny! But shall Peeta's awesomeness sway her thoughts? Hmm . . . let's find out!**

**And here . . . we . . . go!**

******************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 11

It was hot. So, so, incredibly hot.

And my mouth and throat were so, so, incredibly dry.

It had only been hours ago when Peeta and I had been playfully bickering over the rabbit, but it now seems like years. As if to taunt us, the Gamemakers have turned up the heat in the arena. It's blisteringly hot, and I'm sweating bullets. Peeta and I both know that we're in trouble. Deep trouble. There's a dry patch on my tongue that refuses to moisten, and my throat feels scratchy and swallowing is painful.

Fatigue has settled in and it's not the normal kind, like the tiredness you feel after a long day of work or a nice long hike through the woods. No, this fatigue is crippling. My muscles and joints are stiff. My head is throbbing in time with every beat of my heart. My vision is blurring, and I think I'm beginning to hallucinate because I don't know why Prim is sometimes walking beside me when I look to my left.

I always blink and then she's gone.

But Peeta and I trudge on, stumbling along together. He used to be able to catch me when I stumbled, but now he's just as tired as I am and I know he couldn't keep me from falling if he tried. I want so badly to stop, to rest, but I'm too fearful of not being able to get back up.

My mind briefly wonders if the Capitol is going to be disappointed with Peeta's and my boring deaths. Suddenly, I think of a specific viewer of the Games. Someone who could help us. Someone who could potentially save us, if only from dehydration . . .

Haymitch.

Don't we have sponsors? I wonder. I'm sure that we must. After all, hadn't Peeta and I done enough to hook their interest? To get them to like us? Haymitch told me that I had them wrapped around my finger. Wouldn't that mean that we had sponsors? All Haymitch had to do was press a button and a silver parachute would float down to me, delivering to me the most precious liquid. I know that prices are astronomical to send something into the arena, but isn't Haymitch going to at least try to get me out of here? Or Peeta?

Maybe he's trying to send me a message. Maybe he's saying that he wants me to ditch Peeta. After all, he can only save one of us, right? There's only one winner of these Games. Peeta already said he doesn't want to win. I bet if I suggested separating he would. He wants me to win. He told me that too. I open my mouth, preparing to ask him, but I can't form the words. Whether it's the lack of water, or my personal distaste for the words, I can't say them.

So I stay silent and continue to look for water.

"Why hasn't . . ." Peeta pauses, trying to moisten his tongue enough to talk. ". . . Haymitch . . ."

I nod, showing him that I know what he's trying to say. I force myself to shrug in answer.

"I'm going to be . . ." Peeta swallows. ". . . really pissed if . . . he just lets you die."

If I had the energy, I would have laughed.

"Probably drunk," I manage to say.

Somehow, Peeta finds a way to smile at my comment.

But my previous thoughts of Haymitch begin to prick at my brain. Haymitch and I, much to my aggravation, are a lot alike. I feel like I understand him on some weird level. For all of his drunkenness, Haymitch is actually a pretty smart guy. Calculating. Manipulative. I've been able to see glimpses of these qualities when he's been fairly sober. His eyes get that sharp look, like he's seeing everything and organizing it in his mind. It's annoying.

So Haymitch has to be sending me a message. If he had the ability to send Peeta and I water, why wasn't he?

_Because we've almost found it._

This thought spurs me on, and I feel a desperate strength take hold of me. Peeta and I walk for another hour before I stumble and don't get back up. I hear Peeta collapse beside me. My face begins to sink into the ground a little, and I notice that the ground is cooler than I think it should be. It feels nice against my overheated skin.

I feel Peeta's hand on my shoulder. "K-Katniss . . . we . . . have to keep . . . moving."

My fingers curl into the ground, as if to keep me there. The fact that the ground is cool and moist hits me again, and something stirs in my brain.

_I love mud, _I think.

Mud.

My head lifts from the ground. I inhale sharply and notice the smell of lilies. Pond lilies.

"Mud," I whisper. I force myself to my knees. "Mud and lilies."

Peeta is looking at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have, but I look at Peeta anyway. I hold up my fingers in front of both of us and see that they're dark brown, covered in mud.

I see comprehension dawn on him and suddenly we're both crawling forward. Five yards of crawling through the mud and we see it. The Gamemakers really couldn't have hidden the pond any better. Surrounded by tall grasses and shrubs, you wouldn't see it unless you walked right on top of it.

Though I would love nothing more than to jump into the pond, filled with my blossoming yellow lilies atop their little green pads, I restrain myself. With shaky hands I unscrew the top of the water bottle and fill it. Somehow, my overheated brain is able to remember the exact number of iodine drops needed to purify it. This entire time, Peeta has been staring at the water of the pond like it's going to disappear any minute. I really don't blame him, though I'm glad he has enough sense to wait until I purify the water.

The thirty minute wait is grueling and an odd, yet very effective form of torture. Holding what I so desperately need in my hands, and yet being unable to drink it. It's agony. I doubt that I wait the full thirty minutes, though it's really my best estimate. I remind myself to drink slowly and take one, slow sip.

The effect is immediate. Slow building, but immediate. I take a few more sips before I pass the water bottle to Peeta. "Slow," I remind him in a cracked voice and he barely nods at me before drinking.

We continue to do this for hours. A handful of slow sips and then giving the water bottle to each other in turns. We refill the bottle as needed. Eventually, though we're still tired, we almost feel back to normal. I can tell because Peeta's lips are beginning to quirk up in that faint, ever-present smile that seems to be on his face, and his blue eyes are regaining that sparkle. He even grabs the backpack and begins to camouflage it. After about half an hour, he has miractulously managed to conceal the blaringly bright orange color of the backpack.

I decide that successfully thwarting death for the second time in the Games deserves a reward, and I allow us to dip into our reserve of precious crackers and beef. We get one cracker and strip of beef a piece. This rallies our spirits immensely and after another hour or so, we're beginning to share some broken bits of conversation.

I'm about to say something when suddenly, a splash of water hits my face. I cough and blink rapidly, only to see a pair of blue eyes sparkling at me. "You did _not_ just do that," I say lowly.

Peeta pauses for a moment, as if to ascertain whether I'm going to play his little game or if I'm mad at his silliness. Honestly, I haven't made up my mind which I am, but he seems to decide for me because he's grinning like there's no tomorrow.

And it might be true.

So I splash him back. We continue our little childish game until my competitive side shines through, and I dunk his head under. I only keep his head submerged for a second before I let go. However, much to my distaste, Peeta flips his head up out of the water, splashing me in the process. I know he did it on purpose. And when he makes a big show of shaking out the water from his long, now wet blonde curls, Peeta makes sure that I get the brunt of the water droplets flung in my direction.

My hands come up to block my face, and I laugh. That's the second time I've laughed during these Games. Only Peeta could make me laugh at a time like this. He simply has an effect on people, an effect that I am most definitely not immune to. The thought scares me on some levels, but I don't dwell on it.

When Peeta finally stops shaking his head, he looks at me, grinning. I can't help but think he looks handsome. His blonde hair is a shade darker and about a half-inch longer because it's wet, causing it to hang into his eyes. Little drops of water are still falling from his hair. He's smiling at me in that way he has. His eyes are twinkling.

I feel a smile threaten to form.

My stomach begins to flutter.

"We should find somewhere to settle for the night," I say, ending whatever little moment we were in.

The trance is broken and Peeta seems to blink before nodding. "Yeah," he agrees. "It'll be dark soon."

I fill up the water bottle again before I locate a suitable tree to rest in. I quickly scale it and a few minutes later Peeta is beside me. The anthem plays, but no faces are shown in the sky. No one died today. We settle into the sleeping bag, again with me practically on top of him, but I'm so tired I don't care. I gladly let my head fall to rest on his chest. Peeta's arms come up to surround me and my eyes close as I drift off to sleep. I'm really glad neither of us snores . . .

A few hours later, I wake to the sound of thundering feet. I bolt up and place a hand on Peeta's chest to support myself as I lift my upper body to look around for the source of the noise. Peeta is asking me what's wrong when suddenly he stiffens.

And I know that he sees it too.

I stare, stunned and horrified, as a great wall of fire descends upon us.

* * *

**Great balls of fire! Ah!**

**So, I guess you guys know what happens next chapter. Run! Flee from the flames! Run, PK, run!**

**Anywho, because I'm still all excited and bouncy about how my rewrite of CF is going, if you review, I shall answer one question (it can be anything) about my rewrite. It can be about Gale, PK, the Quell, anything. I swear to be truthful!**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Hey, hey, lookie, lookie! Guess who updated a day early? This chick.**

**Why, you may ask? Because you're all awesome and you deserve an early update.**

**I'm so glad that all of you are looking forward to my rewrite of CF, and yes, for those of you who are wondering, I will continue on and rewrite Mockingjay. *cue happy music***

**Oh, and to some of you who reviewed and asked a question about CF...I did try to answer your question, but it's difficult when you've disabled your PM. So, sorry if it seems like I totally ignored you. I did try to reply.**

**On a completely random note, I went to Six Flags over Texas yesterday on vacation ... SO MUCH FUN. I almost blacked out on the Titan. IT WAS AWESOME! If you can't tell already, I'm an adrenaline junkie. :D**

**Okay, okay, let's get on to the chapter! FIRE! I love how y'all seem to be pyromaniacs like me...**

**********************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 12

Seeing a giant wall of red-orange flames coming straight toward me is without a doubt one of the scariest things I will ever see. The sheer size is enough to stop my heart in its tracks and cause my muscles to freeze. I don't know how long I'm frozen, probably less than a second, but it feels like so much longer.

Suddenly, instinct takes over, pumping my veins full of adrenaline. Faster than I would ever have thought possible, I scramble out of the sleeping bag, grab my bow and quiver of arrows from the near limb I'd hung them from, and literally hop from branch to branch in my haste to get out of the tree.

The adrenaline must be aiding Peeta as well because he drops down beside me not a second later, and then we're both running. I immediately begin to follow the animals, trusting their sense of direction. Rabbits, deer, even a pack of wild dogs race by me, leaping effortlessly into the air, avoiding the flames and the debris, while Peeta and I stumble along after them, tripping over fallen limbs and bits of rock.

I curse my previous thoughts of feeling safe before falling asleep. No one died today. That should have given me pause. It should have made me think. It's not a good thing in the Games for no one to die. That would imply that the Games are boring, and the Gamemakers can't have the Capitol thinking that.

Thus, the wall of fire. This fire is not natural. The flames are too hot, too high, too uniform. No, this fire was caused by a single person, a Gamemaker, who is sitting comfortably in a chair, far, far away from this fire that he has set upon us.

I think that the rest of the tributes, aside from the Career Pack, must be scattered throughout the arena. My guess is that the fire is a tactic to drive us all together. But where? The lake? The Cornucopia?

I jump over a fallen, burning tree trunk. Not high enough. The tail end of my jacket catches fire and I rip it off and stamp out the flames. Peeta takes it from me and tosses it into the sleeping bag that he's slung over his shoulder. We can't afford to lose any of our supplies. They're all we have. Even a burnt jacket too valuable to lose.

The smoke and ash in the sky is quickly getting to us. It's insufferable, similar to breathing in hot, dry wood. I begin to cough. It feels like my lungs are being scorched and cooked. At first, there's a mild discomfort in my chest, but only minutes later the discomfort morphs into a sharp pain for every breath I take.

I have to stop after another few minutes of running. My excessive coughing has turned into to retching, and I just manage to take cover under an outcropping of rock before the heaves get the best of me. I can hear Peeta beside me, coughing and retching as well. I vomit until there's nothing left in my stomach. My breathing is ragged and my lungs feel as though they are on fire.

I know that we have to move. I know that we can't stop. I think back to what I know about the Games. Often, some of the unnatural forces of the Games, like this fire, are only in certain sections of the arena. I'm thinking that if Peeta and I can just escape this section, then we will be fine.

"Do you think that we—" Peeta pauses, a violent cough racking his chest. "—can double back?"

I pause, thinking it over. Peeta's idea has potential. I can tell what he's thinking. If we are able to double back and get behind the fire line, we would be safe from the Careers, or at least further from them, and we would have a source of water. But Peeta's idea would require miles of extra running around, and then a very circuitous route back.

"I don't know," I admit between gasps. I can't seem to take a deep breath. "I think maybe—"

I don't get to finish. A fireball crashes into the rock above us, causing half of it to collapse. Peeta and I share one glance, communicating one simple message.

_Run_.

And run we do.

We bolt out from under the rock just as another fireball hits it, probably destroying it completely, but neither Peeta nor I look back to check. I hear a whizzing in the air and shout, "Down!"

Peeta and I collapse onto the ground, the fireball hitting the ground about ten yards in front of us. The fireballs themselves are probably only the size of an apple, but they pack a punch when they hit the ground. Peeta and I are up and running again a second later.

I don't know how long we run or how far, dodging fireballs all along the way. I'm not sure if my lungs will ever be the same after this. Eventually, the fireballs stop and it seems like we've outrun the fire. Peeta and I slow to a walk before I have to stop to retch again. A bitter hot, acidic substance is all that I can throw up.

My clothes are soaked through with sweat, my body is trying desperately to rid myself of the poisons I've been inhaling, and somehow, through the smoke and vomit, I'm able to smell singed hair. Almost in wonder, I pick up the end of my braid and sure enough, nearly six inches have been burnt off. The blackened ends fall from my fingers.

Peeta notices. "Damn."

My thoughts exactly.

However, I don't linger on this thought because I hear the telltale whizzing of a fireball. My muscles react, but I'm not fast enough. I'm able to spin out of the way, but the fireball clips my left calf. This seems to be the last straw, and a shriek of surprise and fear escapes me. I scuttle backwards on the ground, almost as if I could run away from the fire engulfing my pant leg. Peeta's hollering at me, saying something, but I can't really hear him. My mind is only able to process the fact that I'm on fire.

I regain enough sense to quickly roll my leg across the ground, trying to put out the flames. And then suddenly Peeta's beside me and rips my pant leg at the knee, tearing away the burning fabric and blistering his hands in the process.

My calf is screaming, but I don't want to look at it. I know that it's bad, judging by Peeta's grimace when he looks at my leg. He's talking to me, probably trying to reassure me, but I don't hear his words. I'm too focused on not revealing how much pain I'm in. I remember my mother treating burns. Burns are a common injury in 12, particularly in the Seam. All of us are around fire. It's used to cook and heat our homes, and then there's the occasional fire down in the mines.

I remember one miner that came to my mother. I knew he was knocking on death's door the moment I saw the burn. I only got a quick look at it before I ran from the house, but it was enough. The burn was all the way to the bone . . . blackened, dead flesh surrounding the wound. The smell had been terrible. I knew there was no helping him, and my mother did too. She numbed the pain, did what little she could, and then left him with his family until he died.

My mind tells me that the burn on my calf is not as bad, but I still can't look at it. My emotions are running wild. The near death experience, coupled with the adrenaline rush that hasn't quite gone away and the blinding pain in my leg, is not helping me in my quest to get my emotions under control. But still, I force myself to remain as stoic as possible.

Panem is watching. The Capitol is watching.

I know that the Gamemakers don't want me dead. Not yet at least. If they did, I _would_ be dead. One of those fireballs would have hit me harder, or I would have fallen into a pit of vipers. No, this fire was only for entertainment.

"Katniss, the girl on fire," I mutter to myself, so low that I doubt the Capitol can hear me, although Peeta does. He makes a noise of contempt.

"Let's go," Peeta says, taking charge, which is odd, but oddly comforting at the moment. I realize that I'm relying on him again, but at the moment I don't care.

However, I draw the line when he scoops me up into his arms. "What are you doing?"

"Carrying you."

"Put me down."

"No."

"Now!"

"Not happening."

I scowl, and he smiles. "There's the scowl I've been waiting for."

"Why are you so happy all the time?" I ask in bewilderment and exasperation.

Peeta just shakes his head, the smile still on his face. "Do you really want to know?"

"The anticipation is killing me."

Peeta's smile dwindles a little, and I make an apologetic face. "Sorry. No death references."

"Thanks for that."

"Okay, so tell me why you're so happy all the time," I say, getting back on track. I actually want to know because I don't know how he manages it.

"One, I'm not happy all the time," he informs me. "Just most of the time."

"Glad you clarified that."

"And it's all because of you."

I frown in disbelief. Me? "Why?" I ask.

Peeta shrugs, and the effort seems easy even though he's carrying me. "Because I love you, Katniss."

I don't know what to say. Peeta's answer is so simple, to him at least. To me? His answer is complicated. Very, very complicated. At his words, a warm feeling rushes through me, but at the same time it clashes with a feeling of rejection. I don't _want_ to feel this warmth. I can feel my carefully constructed emotional walls cracking. I don't want them to crack. I can't afford for them to crack.

But I can't find it within myself to return a caustic comment, one that would hurt his feelings and hopefully extinguish the love he feels for me. I just can't hurt him. He's been too good to me, and I have a weakness for good people.

My head comes to rest against his shoulder and Peeta holds me closer. Suddenly, I feel myself being lowered to the ground. "Wha—" I begin.

"Relax," Peeta assures me as he sets me down. "I found water . . . completely by accident, of course," he can't help but add with a small grin.

"How you manage to smile all the time amazes me," I say, more to myself than to him as I close my eyes briefly.

However, when I open my eyes after a few seconds, Peeta's face is serious as he looks at my leg. "It could be worse," he declares. "Need to put it in the water. It'll draw the heat out."

I remember what my mother always said about burns. It coincides with what Peeta is saying, but that makes sense. Peeta, a baker, who is always working around fires, is bound to know a few things about burns.

Speaking of burns . . .

"What about you?" I hiss has he lowers my leg into the water. It appears to be a natural spring, the water seeping from fissures in the rock. "Your hands."

Peeta shrugs. "They're no big deal."

"At least soak them in the water for a bit," I tell him, and Peeta makes an exasperated face, but does what I ask.

I should have known that Peeta wouldn't listen to me for long. Hardly fifteen minutes later, his hands are out of the water and he's organizing our things. He takes my bow and quiver of arrows, which had slid off my arm when I'd stopped to retch for the second time, and lays them beside me. Wise of him. He takes out my scorched jacket from the sleeping bag and examines it before practically ripping it in half.

He hands it over. "Better put that on," he says as I shrug into the jacket. The hem barely hits the bottom of my ribcage now. "Gotta stay as warm as you can."

Peeta rolls up the sleeping bag and then stuffs it into the backpack. He fills up our water bottle from the spring and treats it. After waiting the appropriate amount of time, he hands it to me. I dutifully take a few sips, because I know he'll put up a fuss if I don't, and I need to rehydrate anyway. I give the bottle back to him after a while, and Peeta gives each of us a cracker and a strip of beef. The small amount of food settles my stomach, which is still feeling a bit woozy.

After Peeta has all of our supplies organized, it remains quiet between us, but it's not uncomfortable. I'm used to silence anyway. We stay like this for a long time until I begin to drift off to sleep. Peeta comes to sit beside me and taps my shoulder. "Scoot up," he says softly.

I do and he moves to sit behind me. I realize what he's doing, and I'm still able feel that fluttery feeling in my stomach even though I'm more tired than I've ever been. I lean back against his chest and feel his arms wrap around my waist. I lay my head on his shoulder in the crook of his neck, and I feel him rest his chin on the top of my head.

My eyes drift closed.

* * *

**Aw...mental picture...so sweet...**

**And I'm ECSTATIC to announce that the next chapter will be PK vs. Careers! And Peeta vs. Cato, Round 3. Wooooo!**

**Also, might we see some possessiveness from Katniss next chapter? Hmm? She doesn't like other girls eyeing her man . . . **

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: O.M.G. I cannot believe that this fic already has over 400 reviews! And this chapter marks the halfway point in the story! Only 13 more chapters to go, and they are action-packed, let me tell you! :D**

**Anywho, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and alerted this story! It's my most popular story yet, and that's all thanks to you! All. Of. You. Are. Epically. Awesome.**

**And I'm totally keeping this A/N short because I know that all of you are just _dying_ (hehe, pun) to know what happens in this chapter! Lots of questions will be answered, I think. :D**

**So let's get to it, shall we?**

**************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 13

I wake up hearing Peeta curse.

"Move!" he whispers urgently. "They're close!"

It doesn't take me long to guess who 'they' are. I hear them stomping through the forest, not caring who hears. They're on our tail, and they're almost upon us. The Career Pack.

Instinct and the will to survive give me the speed and energy needed to bolt to my feet, oblivious to the pain in my calf. I grab my bow and sling the quiver of arrows over my shoulder. Peeta already has the backpack, and I notice as we begin to run that the knife I got from Clove at the Cornucopia is stuck in his belt.

I know that we only have a minute head start, maybe less, and my first instinct is to climb a tree. But I know that with my leg and the burns on Peeta's hands, we won't be able to climb high enough. That leaves us with only one other option. If we can't flee, we have to fight.

Fear floods me at the thought, but I lock it up tight. I can't let it get the better of me. I have to be rational. Every move I make from here on out will determine if I live or die in the next few minutes. I can't allow fear to blind me. Pure determination sets my jaw, and my eyes harden. Let them come. I'm ready.

And I get my wish.

Suddenly, Marvel, Glimmer, and the girl from 4 appear from behind a large tree in front of us, and Peeta and I skid to a halt. I realize what they've done. It was a trap. They chased us here, lured us . . . and we fell for it. However, I can't focus on that right now. My ire at being snared will have to wait . . . if I live through this.

"We got'em Cato!" Glimmer calls and I hear Cato's footfalls speed up. I can only guess that Clove is with him.

I immediately size up their weapons. Glimmer and the girl from 4 each have a small sword and Marvel has a spear. I think about shooting Glimmer. Out of the three of them, she's the weakest. But I as soon as I get a shot off, I have no doubt that Marvel's spear will be embedded in my chest.

We are at a stalemate.

Cato and Clove burst into view, both of them grinning in delight. They've caught us. As if by some unspoken signal, they close in on us. Peeta and I move so that we're facing all of them, but there's only so far we can step back before they attack us. We manage to put about fifteen feet between us and them.

"Well, well, well," Clove says lazily. "If it isn't the star-crossed lovers from District 12 . . ."

"Glad you're happy to see us," Peeta replies and I can practically hear the gears in his mind turning. I wonder if Peeta can actually talk us out of this. Though I've seen Peeta talk himself or someone else out of a sticky situation, I don't think that even his magic words can save us from the Careers. "How have you guys been?"

The Careers seem just as surprised by Peeta's casual attempt at conversation as I am. "Fine," Cato replies, though I notice that his voice is a bit raspy. The Careers must have gotten caught by the fire, too. "And yourselves?"

"It's been a little too warm for my taste," I say, not really liking the fact that Peeta is doing all the talking. I don't need them to think that I rely on him. They need to know that I can take care of myself.

They need to know that I'm a threat.

The Careers don't seem to know what to do. We aren't what they expected. We're not showing fear, we're not cowering, pleading for them to spare us. I feel smug, and courage fills me, increasing my determination. I'm going to fight, and I'm going to win.

I can't afford to lose. I promised Prim.

I see that Peeta has drawn the knife from his belt, and my fingers are itching it string an arrow, but I'm afraid any quick move will cause the Careers to attack.

I notice that this whole time, Glimmer has been eyeing Peeta in a way that I really don't like. It doesn't sit right with me and causes an oddly-tinged anger to flood me. It's almost like I'm jealous, but I inwardly scoff at the thought. What do I have to be jealous of? No, no I'm not feeling jealous. I'm feeling possessive.

Peeta is mine.

"What's caught your eye, Glimmer?" I say, causing her attention and the rest of the Career's to snap to me.

Glimmer scowls before adopting a falsely sweet expression. "I'm just wondering how the nights have been for you. It's been awful cold."

I smile. "Oh, we've got a sleeping bag. It's a tight fit, but, hey, we make it work. Why? Jealous?"

Glimmer's emerald green eyes harden, and I can't deny that she looks dangerous in this moment. She sniffs disdainfully, but I know that I've hit the nail on the head. "No, of course not," she denies.

I merely smile, silently showing my disbelief.

"So . . ." Peeta draws out the word, though he glances at me out of the corner of his eye. No doubt he's wondering about my exchange with Glimmer. "Is this the part when you guys try and kill us? Cause I'm just wondering which of you it's going to be. I mean, there are five of you and two of us. Who gets the honors?"

I'm wondering what Peeta's up to. It occurs to me that my exchange with Glimmer probably allowed him more time to think of a plan, and I realize that Peeta is trying to get the Careers to argue. With the right words as ammunition, it wouldn't be too hard. Their alliance is fragile, a hierarchy of power that only holds true until one of them turns on the other. That's what Peeta is trying to do.

"From what I see, Cato's running the show," Peeta continues. "And you guys are just following his orders. Doing what he tells you."

"No one tells me what to do," Marvel snaps and I force myself not to smile. Peeta's plan is working.

"Really?" I ask. "Then why didn't you kill us when you first found us? I bet you waited for Cato to show up because he told you to."

"Shut up!" he growls at me, and Peeta tenses beside me. "I'll kill you myself!"

He raises his spear and I quickly draw and string an arrow, aiming right between Marvel's eyes.

"Put that down, idiot!" Cato grabs Marvel's spear, rips it from his hands, and tosses it away. "I told you she's mine!"

"I wouldn't bet on that," Peeta interrupts, his voice sounding colder than I've ever heard.

Cato's attention is immediately focused on Peeta, and I see their mutual hatred of each other raging just beneath the surface. Peeta's normally kind, blue eyes are now as cold as ice. Cato's eyes are wild with a fiery fury. As they stare each other down, my mind flashes back to the glaring contest after the parade, and then the first day of training when Peeta lifted the weights, making Cato look like a fool . . . all that contained hate is about to overflow.

Cato chuckles menacingly and I see him tighten his grip on his sword. He holds it up, twirling it slightly and swiping at the air lazily. "I'll cut you down right now, Lover Boy."

My aim immediately switches from Marvel to Cato. "And you'd die before you got the chance," I say lowly.

My fingers are practically twitching with the urge to let go of the bowstring and let my arrow fly, hitting Cato right between the eyes.

Cato's eyes move to me. "Do you even know how to use that?" he asks mockingly.

"Do you want to find out?"

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Clove shouts in outrage and I barely have time to duck before I see her flick her wrist, sending one of her knives flying toward me.

The knife embeds itself solidly in the tree trunk behind me, but I hardly have time to notice before the Careers are on us, Clove's swift action prompting them to take action of their own. Fear shoots through me when I hear the sound of flesh hitting flesh and I know that it's Cato and Peeta.

But I don't have time to worry about that. Glimmer is closest to me, too close to get a shot off. I quickly unstring my arrow and thrust it forward into her heart before quickly ripping it back out. I don't wait for my actions to register in my brain as she falls to the ground, dead. I don't think about the resistance her body put up when I drew out the arrow from her chest. Within a second, my arrow is knocked in my bow, and I fire at Clove. I hit her in the shoulder and she screams in fury.

I don't know how, but something in the trees catches my eye. A flash of brown hair and dark skin. My eyes flit up and I see someone I never expected to see. Rue. She's pointing frantically at something above my head, and I follow her pointing hand.

Tracker jackers.

Tracker jackers are a muttation engineered by the Capitol. They look a lot like wasps except they are golden in color and carry poisonous venom. A sting from a single tracker jacker is said to be incredibly painful and if you ingest enough of their venom, you hallucinate. But these hallucinations are specific. The venom is designed to bring out your worst fears. It prays on adrenaline and makes your every fear morph into something so terrifying that I've heard of people dying from it. Being so afraid that their heart stops.

All of this runs through my mind in a split second.

The thing about tracker jackers is that they are honing insects. Once one stings you, the others of the hive will find you and attack you as well. And if I shoot down the hive . . . it'll fall right onto the Careers.

I'm torn from my thoughts when I see a blur of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. It's not Peeta, I know that much. I turn just in time for the shaft of Marvel's spear to slam into my head. I fall to the ground, my head throbbing and my vision blurring. I sweep Marvels legs out from under him, and then kick his spear away.

I only have time for one shot.

I raise myself up on one knee, aim high, and then let my arrow fly. It cuts clean through the narrow, sinewy rope that holds the tracker jacker nest to its branch, and I have just enough time to feel satisfaction as the nest drops before I hear a cry of pain that causes my stomach to drop.

But in the next second, the nest crashes to the ground, causing the tracker jackers to spew out in a vicious swarm.

Immediately they are on us, and I'm thinking that my brilliant plan will be my death sentence. I feel the first sting in my knee, and it's enough to cause me to spring forward, away from the nest. The nest itself dropped right in the middle of the Careers, so the majority of the tracker jackers went after them, but a few of them found me. I hear the Careers shouting about running to the lake, and I wonder if we're really that close. But I know that running to the lake isn't an option for me. As I run deeper into the woods, another stings my neck and my cheek. I rip the stingers out as I run, but I'm already feeling woozy.

My legs begin to feel funny and I stumble. My vision is shifting and blurring. Colors are swirling together to form odd images. I'm unable to tell up from down. I sense vaguely that I'm still stumbling forward, my survival instinct keeping me from collapsing.

But even my will to keep moving is soon overtaken by the venom. It's starting to turn to fire in my veins and I feel hot all over. It's like my blood is boiling and I hear a long, high-pitched scream that seems to go on forever. I think it's me.

My mind pulls up the memory of a pained cry. I'd heard it just before the tracker jacker nest hit the ground. Peeta. It was Peeta. I know it was Peeta. Cato got him. I'm overwhelmed with a pain in my heart that has nothing to do with the venom. It's more crippling than anything, but it melts into the pain from the venom and soon I'm curled on the ground in the fetal position. I can't move. Everything is pain. All that I'm filled with now is pain of the purest form.

I feel a warm wetness dripping from my eyes and I shakily raise a hand to wipe it away. My fingers come away covered in blood. It drips from my fingers before it coats my entire hand, and then my forearm. Blood. Blood everywhere. I'm drowning in it. I'm struggling to breathe. Gasping. Blood. Blood. I'm drowning.

I can't breathe.

Hands are grabbing at me, pulling me further under. I can't escape. I can't escape.

They won't let me go.

I can't escape.

Hope leaves me and the darkness sweeps me away.

* * *

**Oh, hallucinations. You gotta love 'em.**

**So, let's do a recap, shall we? Peeta and Katniss fought the Careers. Katniss killed Glimmer and shot Clove. Peeta and Cato fought a brutal battle, and Peeta gets cut. Katniss shoots down the tracker jackers. Rue made an appearance! And now, to top it all off, Katniss thinks Peeta is dead.**

**Oh, yes. I'm cruel. *evil laughter***

**So . . . next chapter is filled with intense emotional anguish and new allies. Hope to see you Saturday!**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Okay, guys, you've got to let up on the awesomeness that all of you seem to exude. Seriously. It's overwhelming me. You guys are EPIC! Thank you, thank you, to all my reviewers. You guys make my day . . . and my inbox rather full . . . which is always happy-dance-inducing . . .**

**Oh, and just a little update on how things are going with my rewrite of CF. I just finished Chapter 26 of at least 30-something. Word count so far: 121, 805. Page Count so far: 396. I have NO idea how it got this long, people. I just keep typing and typing and typing and it just NEVER ends . . . and it's so totally awesome. :D**

**So! Katniss thinks our sweet Peeta is dead! (Gasp) I wonder how that makes her feel . . .**

**Let's find out!**

******************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!" . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 14

The pain has only dulled when I wake.

Every bone and muscle is throbbing, sending pulses of pain throughout my body. My joints feel locked into place, and when I make the move to sit up, I can't help the pained groan that escapes me. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the light, and my vision becomes clearer. I blink rapidly, trying to speed the process.

I see a glint of silver to my right, and reach out a hand toward it. My fingers, which I note are completely blood free, wrap around cool metal. My arrow. I can only assume it's the arrow that cut down the tracker jacker nest. Well, at least I got one arrow back.

Something pricks at the back of my mind, something else that I need back. What is it? I pull myself up into a sitting position and look around. I'm right. Something _is_ missing. No, _someone_ is missing.

"Peeta." His name escapes my lips in a whisper.

Peeta is dead.

Dead.

Gone.

He's never coming back.

I'm horrified when I feel tears well in my eyes. Two feelings are pulling within me, grief and denial. Right now, denial is winning. Peeta can't be dead. He's always been there. Always. He can't have left me. He wouldn't. He can't be gone. He just . . . can't be.

My legs hoist me to my feet, and I ignore the pain that shoots through me. I grab my bow from the ground and I force myself to move, my legs working stiffly to propel me forward as fast as possible. I'm stumbling, but I don't care. I have to get back to where we fought the Careers. I have to see for myself.

When I reach the battle ground, I freeze, my eyes taking in the sight before me. The tracker jacker nest lays cracked open on the ground, abandoned. But that's not what stops me. What stops me in my tracks is the large pool of dried blood. My mind tells me that it's Glimmer's, but all I can see in my mind's eye is Peeta, dead and pale, lying in a pool of rich, red blood.

The bodies aren't here, of course. The hovercraft must have gotten them, but I don't remember hearing any cannons. This makes me wonder how long I've been unconscious. How long could it have been? Twelve hours? A day? Two?

I see our backpack that Peeta carried lying on the ground. I rush for it and cling to it tightly. Yes, it may contain supplies that I desperately need, but it also connects me to Peeta. He carried it. He camouflaged it. I notice a glint of silver a few feet away. Peeta's knife.

And it's covered in blood.

A strange, strangled sound escapes my lips. Those traitorous tears are back with a vengeance and it takes all my self control not to let them fall. My body is trembling with the sobs that I will not set free. How could one boy have such control over me?

Treating it as if it's going to bite me, I pick up the knife and toss it into the backpack. My mind cruelly begins to conjure up frightening images. Peeta and Cato. Blades clashing. Cries of pain. Blood. So much blood.

Peeta is dead.

Grief begins to overwhelm me. No, it begins to _consume_ me. There is an aching, hollow feeling in my chest that is so strange, and yet abominably painful. I feel as though I lost something, some integral part of me. It's so . . . empty. I'd never imagined Peeta not being there. He was always supposed to be there. Even before the Games, before we ever really talked, before we were friends, he was _always_ there. A sort of silent sentinel, watching out for me, giving me the bread . . .

I feel alone for the first time since the Games began.

My mind is telling me that I have to keep moving. I need to take the backpack and go. Find food. Rehydrate. Survive. Because that's what I do, that's what I've always done—survived. But now . . . now it's never seemed so hard . . . so daunting a task.

Peeta is dead.

The thought repeats tortuously over and over in my mind. I feel a lone tear spill over, sliding slowly down my cheek, despite my attempts to thwart its falling. I don't bother to wipe it away, but it's the only one I let fall. I will not let the Capitol know how much I'm suffering, how much pain I'm in. I wonder how they're feeling right now. I bet that they're happy, yet mourning the tragic loss. Peeta Mellark, so good and kind, dying in a fight to save the girl he loved . . . I bet that the Capitol is just eating it up. I bet some of them even cried.

Like they know how it feels.

I doubt they could ever understand the depth of the pain that I'm feeling. I just lost a friend. No, no Peeta was more than a friend. He was my companion. My partner. Peeta was much more than a friend.

It bothers me that I still can't put a name to what Peeta Mellark is to me.

_Was_ to me. Past tense.

I dig deep within myself, closing my eyes. I see my emotional walls in my mind, cracked and ready to crumble. Mentally, I seal those cracks, though it still leaves a scar. I lock away all my grief, all my feelings for Peeta, deep within the vaults of my mind.

When I open my eyes I feel completely empty. But, at this point, empty is good. I grab the backpack and sling it over my shoulder so that it's resting beside my quiver. My hand tightens on my bow, and I resolutely turn and walk away from the scene. I know what I have to do. I need to hunt.

This is good because I _really_ want to shoot something.

I trek through the forest slowly, due to the physical pain still radiating throughout my body. However, I simply slip into my hunter's crouch and move along silently. But after a few minutes, the silence begins to bother me. Peeta isn't trudging along behind me, scaring away all the game. He's not teasing me. He's not laughing.

Because he's dead.

I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking him out. I can't feel. Not now. Hunting. Rationality. That's all I am. A rational hunter. That's all I can allow myself to be.

A rabbit hops out in front of me fifteen yards away and my arrow is immediately stuck in it. It's not clean through the eye like usual, but it will do. I secure the rabbit to my belt and restring my arrow. Fifteen minutes later, I shoot a bird that looks like some kind of wild turkey. It doesn't really matter to me what it is. Meat is meat.

I drink the last of the water in my bottle, and know that my new task is to find a source. Belatedly, I realize that this should have been my first priority, but I had needed so badly to slip into my hunter's mind, where I only feel and see the woods around me and nothing else. I needed that escape so badly, because otherwise I would think of . . .

I mentally stop my train of thought, not even allowing myself to think his name.

After about an hour of walking, I stumble upon a small stream. It's shallow, but wide. I refill and purify my water bottle, and then I'm struck with the need to bathe. Before I really know what I'm doing, or why, I strip down to my underclothes before settling into the water.

The relief is immediate. The cool water soothes the burn on my calf, which is still blisteringly painful. I can literally feel the dirt and grime washing away from me. But there's something else. I feel like I'm being cleansed, metaphorically. Glimmer's blood, her death by my hands, is being washed away. The thought is ridiculous and impossible, and yet I feel better. Or maybe I'm just wishing. Wishing that I could simply wash away what I've done.

I cut off that train of thought quickly. I can't afford to allow myself to feel guilt for Glimmer. These are the Hunger Games. People are going to die. I will probably kill more tributes. That's just how it's going to be.

Suddenly, without my consent, I hear Peeta's voice in my head.

_I'm scared of what I'll have to do. I know I'll die. That doesn't bother me . . . it's just, when I die, I want to die still being me._

_I just want to show them that I'm not a piece in their games._

Not a piece in their games. Peeta, as usual, had been one step ahead of me. I know what Peeta would tell me to do. He'd tell me to allow myself to feel the guilt over Glimmer's death. Because if I don't, if I allow her to just fade away without feeling anything, then I've let the Capitol control me. I would be losing myself to them. I would be allowing them to turn me into something I'm not.

And no one dictates who or what I am. Only I have that power.

I will not be a piece in their games.

Allowing Peeta's words to sink in and guide me causes the aching hollowness in my chest flare. I heard his voice in my head so clearly, it was almost as if he were right beside me. _Like he's supposed to be_. I curse my mind, but it's relentless. Suddenly, there's a barage of images in my mind, all of them involving Peeta. A night in the rain. His stupid, know-it-all smirk. Those eyes, so, so incredibly blue, and always dancing with a light that made you want to smile. Strong, protective arms. His laugh. That soft smile he saved just for me . . .

My heart feels as though it's being squeezed by a tight, clawed hand. It's so painful that I can hardly breathe. I feel tears in my eyes and quickly submerge completely in the water so that the Capitol can't see them. I stay under the water until my lungs are ready to burst before resurfacing and taking in much needed oxygen.

Deciding that I've spent enough time in the water, I get out and dress, knowing that the slight dampness in my clothes will dry quickly. The Gamemakers seem to like to keep the arena hot this year. I find a place to set up camp and decide to risk a fire. I'm relying on the fact that I will be able to cook the game and then put out the fire before nightfall, and I'm hoping that dusk will help conceal the smoke.

I quickly clean my kills. After the bird is plucked, it's no bigger than a small chicken, but meat is meat and that's all that matters. I start a small fire and quickly have it going pretty good. I fix a spit each for the bird and the rabbit and then sit back and wait.

It's about a quarter of an hour later when I hear the snap of a twig. My head jerks up toward the sound just in time to see a pair of wide brown eyes before they disappear behind a large tree. "Hey Rue," I call softly. "I won't hurt you. Come on over here."

Slowly, Rue peeks out from behind the tree. She hesitantly takes a few steps toward me. "I can fix your stings," she says quietly.

"Really?" I ask. I haven't given much thought to them, even if the stings themselves have swollen to the size of a small stone and are painful to the touch. I'm too consumed by a completely different kind of pain to really notice. "How?"

Rue produces a handful of leaves from her pocket, and I remember my mother saying something about a particular leaf being able to treat tracker jacker stings. "We use them all the time at home, in the orchards," she explains quietly. "There are a lot of nests."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "District 11. Agriculture."

Rue nods.

"Orchards, huh?" I ask. "Guess that's why you can fly around the trees like you have wings."

I smile slightly when I see Rue beam with pride.

"Alright then," I say. "Fix me up."

I try and appear as nonthreatening as possible, even though I know that I'm far from being at the top of my game. I seem to be doing something right though, because Rue loses a little bit of her hesitance and comes to sit beside me.

Then she does something unexpected. She tosses a leaf in her mouth and begins to chew. After a minute, she takes the mixture of chewed leaf and spit and spreads it over the sting on my knee. The effect is instantaneous and a sigh of relief escapes me. "Oh, that's better," I say and Rue smiles a little. "Can you do the others?"

Rue applies her little remedy to the rest of my stings and I'm already feeling remarkably better, physically at least. "Now if only I had something for my leg," I say as I look at my burned calf. It's hideously red and blistered and is becoming extremely painful to walk on. I've been fighting a limp all day.

I notice Rue's eyes are on my kills that are cooking over the fire. "You know what, I think I need to repay you," I tell her as I take the kills off the fire. I place the rabbit in my backpack, but I leave the bird. "Just a little insurance to make you stay with me." The words leave my mouth without a thought and I fight not to flinch. Peeta said practically the same thing to me when we'd first met up in the arena.

"You want to be my ally?" Rue asks surprised.

I swallow, remembering my last ally. Peeta . . .

"Sure," I manage. "Why not?"

I know that I shouldn't be doing this. If anything, I've learned that eventually, alliances fall. Peeta died. In order for me to win the Games, Rue will die as well. Alliances are temporary. But the comfort a companion provides is invaluable at the same time.

Mentally shaking away these thoughts, I focus on tearing off a drumstick and handing it to Rue. "Here," I say.

Rue stares at the drumstick in her hand wide-eyed. "Are you sure?" she asks. "Really?"

I nod. "Yeah, you earned it anyway. Besides, I've got the rabbit, too. There's plenty."

"I've never had a whole leg to myself before," she says quietly, which surprises me.

"Take the other," I say and she looks at me shocked. "Come on," I encourage her. "I've got my bow. I can easily get more food, and I've got some snares."

This seems to assure Rue and she takes the other drumstick. For a while we simply eat in silence, but then Rue starts to talk. The bird, apparently, is called a groosling, or so she tells me.

"Sometimes," she says. "A flock will land in the orchards and we'll get a good lunch."

"You know, I thought that you would have had a bit more to eat than the rest of us," I say. "Being the agriculture district and all."

Rue's eyes widen. "Oh, we're not allowed to eat the crops," she informs me.

"Why? They arrest you or something?"

"They whip you and make everyone else watch," Rue explains seriously. "The mayor's very strict about it."

I can tell by Rue's expression that this is not all that uncommon in District 11, but a whipping is a rarity in District 12. After all, Gale and I should be whipped on a regular basis because of our hunting—though technically we could get a lot worse—but no one ever says anything. The Peacekeepers want fresh meat just as bad as everyone else. Gale and I are lucky. Besides, Madge's father, the mayor, doesn't seem to have the taste for such events.

Being the rag-tag district of Panem has its advantages apparently. As long as we meet the coal quotas, we're pretty much left alone.

I wonder if the Gamemakers are blocking out our conversation. The knowledge of what goes on in other districts is very limited. We know the main things about one another, which is how each district helps the Capitol. District 12 is coal. District 11 is agriculture. District 4 is fishing. District 1 is jewels and finery. We only know the basics.

And that's how the Capitol wants it to stay.

Rue and I lay out our supplies. It is Rue's idea, and I admit it's a good one. It allows us to see what all we have. Rue has seen most of what I have, though I lay out the beef strips and crackers. I'm impressed by the amount of roots, berries, and greens that Rue has collected. She's just as good in these woods as I am.

I eye the berries she's picked carefully, though. "Are you sure these are safe?" I ask because I don't recognize them.

Rue nods. "Oh, yes. We eat them all the time back home," she says as she pops a few into her mouth.

Tentatively, I bite into the fruit. It's good. Just like our blackberries at home. We divvy out half the food between ourselves evenly in case we get separated. Rue also has a small water skin, a homemade slingshot, and an extra pair of socks. She's been using a sharp rock as a knife.

"It's not much," she says sheepishly. "But I had to get away from the Cornucopia fast."

"You did the right thing," I assure her as I spread out my gear. I pause when Rue gasps.

"Where did you get those?"

I see that she's looking at the sunglasses. I shrug. "In my pack. They're pretty useless though. They don't block out the sun and they make it hard to see."

Rue is shaking her head, and she looks excited, though I don't know why. "They're not for the sun!" she tells me. "They help you see at night. We get to use them sometimes in the orchards when we harvest through the night, for those of us who are up the highest where the torchlight won't reach. There was this one boy, Martin. He tried to keep his. Hid them in his pants. They killed him on the spot when they found out."

I frown. "They killed a boy for these?"

"On the spot," Rue repeats. "And everyone knew there was no danger. Martin acted like a three-year old; he wasn't right in the head. He just wanted them to play with."

District 12 is beginning to sound like the place to be, a sort of safe haven. I would have never thought it, but it's appearing to be true. Apparently, the Peacekeepers of District 12 are tame compared to some of the other districts. I can't imagine our Peacekeepers killing a simpleminded child. I'm reminded of one of Greasy Sae's grandkids, a little girl that isn't quite right in the head and wonders around the Hob. Everyone is always extra nice to her and give her scraps and things to play with.

"You should try those tonight," Rue says. "See how they work."

"Probably a good idea," I reply before extinguishing our fire. I pack up all our supplies, making sure that Rue has some leaves in case my stings flare up again. Already, the swelling has almost gone down completely. Those leaves are magic.

"We better find a place to sleep for the night," I say as I shoulder my pack and quiver, my bow in my hand. Rue shoulders her little pack too and together we move silently through the woods, following the winding stream that I found earlier in the day.

Night has fallen completely when I see a suitable tree a few yards in front of us. I look at Rue. "Where have you been sleeping?" I ask. "In the trees? Just in your jacket?"

Rue nods, and I frown as I think of how cold the nights have been. Not that I've really noticed much. Peeta's warmth kept the cold away.

I hate the thought of falling asleep without him . . .

My attention is forced back to Rue when she holds up her extra pair of socks. "I use them for my hands."

"Well," I say. "You're sharing my sleeping bag with me. It's plenty big enough."

Rue's eyes light up at my offer. It's more than she probably ever hoped for.

We quickly scale a tree with a broad, forked branch and settle in for the night. I know that Rue has lost all reservations about me when she immediately slides into the sleeping bag and curls into me, resting her head on my shoulder.

Her position reminds me so much of how I'd spent the nights with Peeta. It causes the hollow ache in my heart to flare, and I force back the tears before they even have a chance to form. I try to force myself to forget the feel of his arms around me. I try to force myself to forget the warmth he'd radiated. I try to forget how, impossibly, he'd made me feel safe in a place like the arena of the Hunger Games.

But no matter how hard I try, I can't force him from my mind.

The anthem plays, but there are no faces in the sky. This causes me to wonder how many days I was out. I ask Rue, keeping my voice low. "How many days was I out? Who all is gone?"

"You were unconscious for two days," Rue answers in a whisper. "The girl from District 1 and the girl from District 4 died during your fight with them. There are ten of us left."

My mind has drawn a blank. There is one name that she didn't say. I feel hope building within me, but I hardly dare to wish it into existence for fear that Rue simply forgot. I force myself to speak, though I fear her answer. "What about Peeta?" My voice breaks as I say his name.

Rue lifts her head from my shoulder and I can just make out her face in the dark. "He's still alive. I tried to track him, but I lost his trail at the river. He's hurt, there was blood. That's how I followed him. But he's alive."

Peeta Mellark is alive. The boy with the bread is alive.

"Katniss?" Rue asks, my silence bothering her. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I manage to say. My mind is chaos. I can only think one coherent thought. Peeta is alive. Peeta is _alive_. My emotions are haywire. I can hardly distinguish between one feeling and another. All I can comprehend is astonishment and a growing sense of joy. "I-I thought he was dead. I remember hearing him cry out but the tracker jackers attacked, and I woke up and he . . . he wasn't there . . ."

"Peeta's alive Katniss," Rue repeats, and I wonder if she realizes how precious those words are to me right now, how badly I need to hear them. "He's alive."

I nod, though I wonder if she can even see the movement. We're quiet for another minute before Rue speaks up again. "Katniss, you really like Peeta, don't you?"

The phrasing that Rue uses exemplifies her young age. She reminds me so much of Prim.

"Yes, Rue," I say softly. "I really like Peeta." Rue's head finds my shoulder again and I can't help but hold her tightly to me. "More than he probably knows."

And just then I see a silver parachute floating down to me.

* * *

**Aw . . . finally Haymitch sends the burn cream!**

**But that's not what's really important in this chapter! Katniss knows that Peeta is more than a friend. Oh, progress! Glorious progress! Still doesn't have a name for him, but he's more than a friend! Woo! Oh, goody . . . the wonderful things that can happen with that knowledge . . .**

**Sooooooooooo . . . I guess I'll see you guys Tuesday! Katniss decides to strike back, and answers a scary, thought-provoking question from Rue . . . oh, what could this glorious question be?**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	15. Chapter 15

**********************************A/N: Wow! I'm over 500! And for only 14 chapters! This. Is. Awesome.**

**********************************And it's all thanks to you guys! :D**

**********************************Okay, this chapter is the shortest in the entire story. You'll probably finish reading and be like, "where's the rest of the chapter?" Alas, forgive me for making it so short, but when I tried to transition it just didn't flow, so I had to cut it where I did. However, just because this chapter is short, does not mean that it's not important. Actually, this chapter is crucial for Katniss.**

**********************************And it all revolves around a certain question posed by sweet, little Rue. **

**********************************Well, that's enough teasing from me. On with the chapter? Yes. I believe so. :D**

**********************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 15

I never thought I would ever think it, let alone say it, but the words escape me in this moment. "Thank you, Haymitch."

The parachute that he had sent me in the night contains burn cream. I hadn't opened it immediately, choosing to wait until this morning. Why? Because Rue had already fallen asleep and if I moved, she'd wake, and I didn't want to disturb her. The cream is odorless and white, and I place a generous amount on my calf. The relief is immediate and soothing. My skin doesn't feel hot, the cream sucking the heat from the wound. It's heaven.

It's just now dawn and Rue left to go find breakfast. I don't see why, considering that we have enough food between us already, but I think she simply likes to move through the trees. It's her comfort, her reminder of home, so I let her go.

I look up when I hear the shaking of a branch, and there is Rue, her hands cupped around something. She notices the can of burn cream in my hand. "What's that?"

"Burn cream," I answer. "Haymitch sent it to me last night after you fell asleep. Come here, you could use some." I had noticed a burn on her arm last night.

"You have good sponsors," Rue says wistfully as I apply the cream to her arm.

"You will too," I assure her. "Everyone will realize how smart you are." I look at her hands that are cupped gently around something. "What you got there?"

"Eggs," Rue says. "There's a marshy area over that way." She tosses her head in the general direction. "I'm guessing some sort of waterfowl."

Though I really want to cook the eggs, I don't want to risk a fire. Not with the Careers probably out and about, hunting for tributes. We crack open the eggs and then suck them dry. We each eat a handful of berries and some greens, and then wash it all down with some water. It's a good breakfast anywhere.

After we pack up, Rue and I hop down the tree until we're on the ground. Suddenly, the sound of a cannon echoes through the air, and I tense. I look down at Rue, and I know we're both wondering the same thing.

_Who was it?_

I'm overwhelmed with the thought that it might be Peeta, and tears threaten to form. Rue said that he was hurt and bleeding. Could he have lost too much blood? Bled out? I flinch. It's a painful death, much too painful for someone like Peeta. Hell, someone like Peeta doesn't deserve to die in the first place.

"Do you think it was . . . ?" Rue trails off, looking at me in concern.

I force myself to stand tall and keep my chin up. I can't allow myself to hope that he's still alive, just as I can't allow myself to think that he's dead. It's almost as painful as when I actually thought he was dead. Yesterday, I had no hope that Peeta could possibly be alive. Today, I do. And yet, that cannon blast is threatening to crush me with the idea that I might have lost him for good this time.

"We'll find out tonight." My voice comes out sounding small.

"He's okay," Rue assures me as we start walking. "He's really strong."

I can't help but smile a little. "He is," I admit, letting this thought become my solace. Peeta is strong, not just physically but mentally as well. He'll hold on. He'll wait for me.

He has to.

"Do you want to try and find him?" Rue asks hesitantly. "We could make it back to where you guys fought by mid afternoon."

I pause, the weight of my decision causing my shoulders to hunch slightly. Should I find Peeta? My heart is screaming to agree, to say 'yes.' To search for Peeta and find him. But my brain is reminding me of the cannon blast we heard not five minutes ago. I could very well be seeing Peeta's face in the sky tonight, and though the idea nearly causes me to gasp with a phantom pain, I have to acknowledge the fact. I could very well waste more than half a day searching for a dead body. A dead body that I'll never find because a hovercraft has already taken him. I hate the cold, cruel logic, but I know that I'm right.

"Not yet," I say, almost choking on the words. I feel as though I'm betraying Peeta, but I can't deny my logic. I have no idea if the cannon fire was Peeta or not. If it wasn't, then I will find him as soon as I can. If it was . . .

I don't even complete the thought.

"We'll see who's in the sky tonight," I explain, and Rue nods, realizing the conclusion I've come to. I'm grateful that she doesn't comment, instead launching into a discussion about District 11 and her family.

Rue and I continue to talk as we gather food, providing a tenous distraction from my thoughts of Peeta and how he might be dead. Being with Rue sort of reminds me of hunting with Gale, except Rue is a much different companion. Where Gale is silent, Rue chatters—softly, but fervently. She also hums a lot. Rue tells me all about her life in the orchards. I learn that they work from sunup to sundown, though often it's longer, sometimes working twenty-four hours straight during harvest. I learn that she has six younger siblings, which surprises me a little, though it makes sense. Rue has a sense of responsibility and maturity about her that most twelve year olds don't possess.

But, eventually, the conversation turns back to me. "Tell me about Peeta," she says.

I pause to look at her, confused, though my heart clenches at his name. "Why?"

Rue shrugs. "He seems really nice, and you like him. People usually talk about things they like. Or people."

Her logic was so simple, yet true, and our conversation has really been rather one-sided so far. I've been quiet mostly, listening to Rue fill my head with images and thoughts of her home in hopes of not thinking about Peeta. I'm not usually one to think that talking 'helps' or makes you feel better, but I figure that it couldn't hurt to try. Besides, I can't deny Rue.

"Well, for one, I usually don't talk much," I tell her. "Peeta called me a functional mute once." To my surprise, a small smile tugs at my lips as I remember our conversation on the rooftop.

"What's his favorite color?" Rue asks.

"The sunset," I answer. "Peeta's an artist. He can't have a simple answer to that question."

Rue laughs. "So he likes to draw?"

I remember seeing pages of his notebooks in class when I walked by his desk in history. I'm always the last one to class, if I come at all. Sometimes I skip. But every time I walked by his desk, I'd see that the pages of his notebooks were rarely filled with notes. Practically every page contained a picture. Beautiful and precisely drawn.

"Yeah, he likes to draw," I reply with a small smile. "Peeta's family owns the bakery. He ices all the cookies and the cakes."

"So he can cook too?"

I laugh. "I guess so. He can make bread at least."

We continue to gather for a few more minutes, and I'm beginning to feel better talking about Peeta. It's almost as if he's with me if I tell Rue about him. And then Rue asks, "Katniss, do you love Peeta?"

I freeze, my eyes widening. Huh? "What?" I ask, my mind racing, wondering if Rue really did ask me what I think she did.

"Do you love Peeta?" Rue repeats. She looks down, twisting her foot in the dirt, embarrassed. "I just . . . I want to know what it's like. Because, honestly, it's not likely I'm getting out of here alive."

I stare at Rue blankly, uncomprehending. I can't believe that she's asking me this. What is love like? How am I supposed to know? Obviously, she thinks I'm in love with Peeta. What do I say?

"You don't have to answer," Rue says, taking my silence as a rejection. "I just wanted to know."

I rationalize this in my head. If Rue thinks that I'm in love with Peeta, then I should just tell her how Peeta makes me feel. That makes sense, doesn't it?

"Love is . . ." I trail off uncertainly. "Hard to explain." Rue smiles a little at my poor start of an explanation, and I feel myself blush. "It's . . ." I think of Peeta's arms around me. "Comforting. And warm and . . ." My mind recalls that special smile that Peeta has, one that he reserves for me and no one else. "There's a way that he looks at me," I admit, feeling my blush spread. "It makes my heart beat faster and I get this fluttery feeling in my stomach."

Rue giggles at me. "You're blushing."

"Love makes you blush, too," I retort quickly, and Rue giggles some more. "Love is . . ." I think of the day before, when I thought that Peeta was gone forever. My voice is practically a whisper as I say, "Love is when you can't imagine surviving without him."

"It sounds nice," Rue says softly.

"Peeta would have explained it better," I say ruefully. "Words are his thing, not mine."

I feel something shift within me after my explanation to Rue. I can't help but feel that my words have opened up a door inside my mind that I've kept firmly shut. This terrifies me. I'm on the brink of something, of some realization. I know it. I can feel it.

But I have no idea what it is.

The day passes and night falls. Rue and I are up in a tree, already in the sleeping bag. I'm anxiously waiting for the anthem to play. All day, though my conversations with Rue helped distract me, I have been worrying about the sound of the cannon we heard this morning. All day, I've been wondering if the world was so cruel as to give me hope and then snatch it away so quickly. The cynical side of me tells me that the answer is a unanimous 'yes.' However, a smaller part of me desperately hopes that the powers that be have spared Peeta.

The anthem plays and I clutch Rue tightly to me in my nervousness. I hold my breath.

The face of the boy from District 10 appears in the sky.

I'm silent for a long second after the anthem finishes and then I whisper, "Just hold on, Peeta."

"Do you want to try and find him?" Rue asks again, and I contemplate my answer.

She asked me this earlier in the day, if I wanted to go find him. But I'd said no, remembering the cannon fire that morning. I needed to know that he was alive before I attempted to find him. Because, however cruel and heartless it seemed, I couldn't afford to take the time to find a dead body. These were the Hunger Games, and I knew that Peeta wanted me to win. He would have told me to leave him.

But now, now that I know he's alive . . . I have to find him.

"Yes," I answer. "But first, I want to do something."

"What?"

A plan has been cooking in my mind all day, another form of distraction from Peeta. An offensive plan. I thought back over all the Hunger Games I've seen, specifically the ones where someone other than a Career won. The times when the victor wasn't a Career were the years when the Careers didn't have their supplies. There was one year when a mudslide took out all the supplies the Careers had gathered and a boy from 6 ended up winning.

The Careers, for all their strength, are actually incredibly weak. They rely too much on their supplies, their sponsors. They don't know how to _survive_.

"I want to destroy the Career's supplies," I tell her.

Rue replies incredulous, "But they're so strong, Katniss."

"We're strong too," I say. "Just in a different way."

"You are. You can shoot." I can see Rue frown in the dark. "What can I do?"

"You can feed yourself. Can they?"

"They don't need to. They have all those supplies."

"Exactly." I reply. "And I think it's time we fixed that Rue."

* * *

**So, yes, Katniss is still going to blow up the supplies. I've had a few questions about that, so now you know. :)**

**And we're just continuing to make progress with Katniss, aren't we? She can't survive without him. Her definition of love. Wonder how _that_ will come into play later in the story. (evil laugh) Go Rue for asking the million dollar question!**

**And we also want to slap Katniss silly, because she just admitted she was in love with Peeta and _still_ didn't realize it. Don't worry, her amazing realization of awesomeness is coming. I can't possibly drag it out too much longer. :)**

**The next chapter is a lot like the book. There's only so much that I could do with it. Mainly Katniss's inner monologue is different. After all, she's got to think of Peeta, doesn't she? ;)**

**Things go _boom_ next chapter.**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	16. Chapter 16

**********************************Oh, wow. Thank you guys so much for reviewing and reading and alerting and favoriting and just generally being awesome. Cause you are. Seriously. Your awesomeness overwhelms me.**

**********************************I've just about happy danced my socks off. And they're Nike. I have no idea why that matters.**

**********************************Anywho, just an update for CF . . . it _still_ hasn't ended. I'm at 143,000 words with four to five chapters left. Y'all are going to get your reading in on this one. I don't think there's one chapter in the entire thing that's not at least 4,000 words.**

**********************************But back to this story . . .**

**********************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping' . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 16

All morning I have been antsy. Today is the day. Today is the day when Rue and I destroy the Career's food and hopefully turn the odds in our favor. All morning I've had Rue tell me everything she knows about the Career's camp.

I haven't been giving Rue enough credit. I knew she was smart, but I didn't know the sheer amount of observant wit she possessed. As it turns out, when she wasn't following me and Peeta, she had been spying on the Careers. Able to find a little copse near the edges of their camp where she could see everything and yet remain hidden, she learned everything she could about their camp and the supplies they had.

The food and supplies, she says, is piled up in a pyramid about thirty yards away from the Cornucopia, covered in a net. This fact bothers me. It doesn't make sense. They would want to keep their supplies closer . . . and why pile it all up together? If someone decided to try and steal from them, everything would be in the right place, all together. The hypothetical thief could as easily take a package of crackers as they could take a broadsword.

Another thing that worries me is that the boy from District 3 is guarding the supplies.

"The boy from District 3?" I ask. "He's working with them?"

"Yes, he stays at the camp full-time. He got stung, too, when they drew the tracker jackers in by the lake. I guess they agreed to let him live if he acted as their guard. But he's not very big."

I frown at Rue's theory. It just doesn't make sense. The boy from District 3 left no impression on me at all. I can't remember anything about him. His training score, his interview, nothing. And if he didn't make an impression on me, I doubt that the Careers even noticed him at all.

So why keep him alive? Why let him near their precious supplies in the first place? What value could he be for them?

"What weapons does he have?" I ask. Maybe he has a secret weapon, like I have my bow.

"Not much that I could see. A spear. He might be able to hold a few of us off with that, but Thresh could kill him easily," says Rue.

There's something that's not right with this setup. I can feel it in my bones. As a hunter, you learn to trust your instincts and mine are screaming at me, telling me that all is not as it seems. "Something's just not right, Rue," I say, frustrated that I can't figure out what it is.

"I know." Rue draws a pattern in the dirt at her feet, before looking up at me, her voice quiet. "Katniss, even if you could get to the food, how would you get rid of it?"

"Burn it. Dump it in the lake. Soak it in fuel." I tickle Rue's belly, just like I would Prim. A high-pitched giggle escapes my little ally. "Eat it!" Rue continues to giggle. "Don't worry," I assure her. "I'll think of something. Destroying things is much easier than making them."

For the rest of the morning, Rue and I gather more food. I want to be prepared if we aren't able to meet up after our plan goes through. We carry on a light conversation, learning a little about each other, and when I ask her what she loves most, she replies, "Music."

This gives me pause. The usefulness of music is nonexistent. But then I think of my father, and how his voice was one of the most soothing sounds in my world. I think about my own signing briefly, but I haven't sung since Prim was little and I was trying to get her to sleep.

"We sing a lot at home," Rue explains. "At work, too. That's why I love your pin." She points to my mockingjay pin that I've forgotten about.

"I have a few mockingjays that are my special friends," Rue says proudly and I can't help but smile a little at her enthusiasm. "We can sing back and forth for hours. They carry messages for me."

My eyebrows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"I'm usually up the highest, so I'm the first to see the flag that signals quitting time. There's a special little song I do." Rue pauses and sings a sweet little four-note tune. "And the mockingjays spread it around the orchard. That's how everyone knows to knock off," she explains. "They can be dangerous though, if you get to near their nests. But you can't blame them for that."

We walk in silence for a moment more before Rue looks up at me. "That's how I knew I could trust you," she tells me. "The mockingjay. Do you like them?"

I smile sadly. "Mockingjays remind me of my father," I tell her softly. "He had the most beautiful voice. The mockingjays would always fall silent when he sang."

"They must have really liked him," Rue says. "They're not quiet for just anyone. Do you sing too?"

"Not often. Not anymore."

Rue frowns. "That's too bad. I'd like to hear you sing sometime."

"Maybe," I allow. Like Prim, Rue is too sweet to completely deny her anything.

"I have a good luck charm," Rue tells me. She takes a necklace, made out of some sort of grass out from her shirt. There's a little, carved wooden star hanging from the necklace.

"Well I'd say it's been doing its job so far," I say, and Rue smiles at me.

At lunch, we've worked out the kinks in our plan. By the afternoon, we're ready to put our plan into action. I help Rue set up the two fires, gathering enough green wood to make enough smoke so that the Careers notice. The third fire Rue will have time to set herself.

We decide to meet afterward at the place where we shared our first meal and became allies. I'm planning on using the stream to help guide me there. I should be able to find it that way fairly easily. I give Rue some of my food, and even give her my sleeping bag just in case we aren't able to meet up tonight for whatever reason.

"But won't you get cold?" Rue asks as she takes the sleeping bag warily.

"Don't worry about me," I tell her. "I can take one from the Careers. Stealing isn't illegal here, you know," I say with a grin to set her at ease.

It seems to work because Rue smiles and tucks the sleeping bag in her pack. She suddenly decides to teach me her mockingjay signal, the one that she uses in the orchards. "It might not work. But if you hear the mockingjays singing it, you'll know I'm okay, only I can't get back right away."

It's a good idea and it makes me worry a little less. "Okay then, if all goes according to plan, I'll see you for dinner," I say with a smile.

Unexpectedly, Rue throws her arms around my waist, giving me a big hug. It takes me by surprise, but it doesn't take me long to reciprocate. "You be careful," she tells me seriously.

"You too," I reply before turning and leaving her, making my way up stream.

I'm still worried about Rue being killed. She's grown on me the past two days. I shake my head. Rue started growing on me on the train when we watched the reapings. She is so much like Prim, and yet so different. Rue loves adventure. Prim finds it a trial. But they have that same sweetness about them, that same purity that is rare, but precious.

I quickly reach the spot in the stream where I had my bath. It only takes an hour. I must have been traveling much slower than I thought after the tracker jacker attack. I easily follow the stream downhill and in no time I'm nearing the Career's camp. The closer I get, the more acute and sensitive my senses become. An arrow is already strung in my bow, and any little noise is enough for my head to jerk up quickly to identify it. I try and calm myself, because I'm getting jumpy. Jumpy is not good when hunting.

While I cautiously make my way to the copse that Rue told me about, I can't help that my mind wonders to Peeta. It's been four days since our fight with the Careers, and I'm wondering how much longer he can hold on, despite my attempts to think positive. If he's bleeding like Rue said, I know that he can't possibly last more than another day if I don't get to him soon.

I remind myself that Peeta is strong, not just physically, but mentally. Peeta is strong in ways that I'm not. Peeta has faith. He simply _believes_. He has a trust in the world that I don't have. And somehow, it makes him stronger. I don't understand it, but Peeta's blind faith seems to help him.

However, I can't help the fact that my heart clenches at the thought of Peeta lying somewhere, slowly dying, all alone. Is he expecting me to find him? What if he thinks I've abandoned him? I shake my head clear of these thoughts. I need to focus.

I remember the specific instructions that Rue gave me in order to find the copse, and once I find it I have to admire her cleverness. Her little hideout is perfect, better than she'd described. I could see the Careers, the Cornucopia, everything . . . but they couldn't see me. I lie down on my stomach and peer through the bushes that conceal me.

I see four tributes when I look out. Cato, Clove, Marvel, and the boy from District 3. Smugness and a righteous satisfaction fill me when I see that they are still recovering from the tracker jacker stings. The stings are still swollen and ugly and it makes me smirk. Obviously, they were too stupid to pull out the stingers or they don't know about the leaves that will help them. Or both.

My eyes focus on what each tribute is doing. It's obvious that there's a split in the group. District 3 is only there to serve one purpose. I simply don't know what it is. He's sitting away from the others on a crate, absentmindedly fiddling with a plastic box, his spear propped up against his leg. Cato, Clove, and Marvel stand a good distance away from him, and they appear to be talking.

The Cornucopia is in the same position it was when the gong went off except its insides have been plucked clean. All the supplies, as Rue said, are stacked in a pyramid about thirty yards away from the golden horn-shaped structure. Yet some supplies are sprinkled around the perimeter of the pyramid.

I fight a growl of frustration. There's a missing piece of the puzzle that I don't have. This layout is far too specific to be random. This layout has meaning. It's important. And it has something to do with District 3. Why else keep him alive? He's useless to them.

I lay there watching for half an hour, brooding about the missing piece of the puzzle that I'm not seeing. The Careers, all this time, have been talking, but now their voices have risen as an argument breaks out between them.

They've seen the smoke from one of Rue's fires. Cato is shouting and pointing at it, raring to go. But the question appears to be who all is going hunting with him. In other words, they're wondering if they should take District 3 with them.

"He's coming. We need him in the woods, and his job's done here anyway. No one can touch those supplies," Cato argues.

"What about Lover Boy?" asks Marvel and I freeze.

"I keep telling you, forget about him. I know where I cut him. It's a miracle he hasn't bled to death yet. At any rate, he's in no shape to raid us," Cato sneers, though I can tell he's aggravated that Peeta hasn't died yet. I also notice a large, bloody bandage on his shoulder, making me think that Cato didn't come away from his fight with Peeta unscathed, and I smile.

But I can't really focus on that. All I can hear are Cato's words. _It's a miracle he hasn't bled to death yet._ So it's just as bad as my worst imaginings. I'd been holding out hope that Peeta wasn't as injured as Rue seemed to think. After all, he's survived four days. But Cato seems to think that Peeta should be knocking on death's door any second. And his confidence in this belief worries me. What if I'm too late? What if, by taking the time to destroy the Career's supplies, I'm ruining any chance I have of saving Peeta?

"Come on," says Cato. He thrusts District 3's spear into the boy's hands and they head off in the direction of Rue's fire. As they walk away, the last thing I'm able to hear is Cato saying, "When we find her, I kill her in my own way, and no one interferes."

I gulp. Something tells me that he's not talking about Rue. Rue didn't drop a nest of tracker jackers on him. But his words bother me in another way. _I kill her in my own way, and no one interferes. _What does that mean?

I really don't want to find out.

Once the Careers are out of sight, my focus returns to the Cornucopia and the pyramid. I begin to think of ways to get rid of the supplies. My first thought is a flaming arrow, but I have no guarantee that the fire would catch. It might simply burn out, and then I've lost an arrow for no reason. I can't afford to do that. I only have eleven arrows, having already lost one to Clove after putting it in her shoulder during our scuffle four days ago. I'd noticed that her shoulder was bandaged, too.

I decide that I have to get closer. I need a better look. Maybe there's something I'm not seeing. Just as I'm about to take the first step out of my cover, a movement a few hundred yards to my right causes me to pause. And then, much to my dismay, the redheaded girl from District 5, Foxface, slips out of the forest and runs toward the pyramid. I watch her, curious, as she suddenly stops just as she reaches the outer circle of supplies that surrounds the pyramid.

Foxface pauses, examining the ground, before she cautiously begins a series of quick hops and leaps toward the pyramid, occasionally chancing to take a few quick steps. My brow furrows. What's with the dance? What does she know that I don't? Frustration and anger seep into my blood due to the fact that Foxface knows something that I don't. She's proving to be the wild card I pegged her to be when I watched the reapings.

My attention sharpens when Foxface leaps over a barrel. However, she overshot it, and her landing gives her too much forward momentum. Her hands shoot out in front of her, landing on the ground in front of her to steady herself, and she lets out a sharp squeak. She waits for a few seconds, unmoving, before slowly righting herself. I can practically see the relief in her posture from my hiding place. I watch as she takes a few more cautious steps before reaching the supplies. Quickly and efficiently, she takes only enough so that the Career's won't notice. A handful of apples, a package of crackers. All of her supplies are food, though I see her take a small knife from a plastic container.

And then I watch as she does her little dance again, this time away from the pyramid. Once she clears the supplies littered about the ground, she takes off in the direction she came. I scowl. What does she know that I don't? I remember when she fell, when she braced her hands on the ground. She'd been terrified of the ground. It was almost like . . .

It all clicks in my mind.

_It was almost like she thought the ground was going to explode_.

"It's mined," I whisper. Everything makes sense now. Foxface's careful footwork. The reason the Careers have kept the boy from District 3 alive. District 3 specializes in technology. Computers. Automobiles. Explosives. Somehow, he must have been able to reactivate the explosives in front of the pedestals, since they automatically deactivate after the initial sixty seconds are up, and then place them strategically around the supplies. That's why Cato was so blasé about leaving the supplies unattended. Anyone who tried to touch them would be blown sky high. I wonder what the Gamemakers think about this. I bet they were shocked. Well, way to go District 3 for putting one over them, but what am I supposed to do?

Cautiously, I emerge from my hiding place and take quick steps toward the Cornucopia. I stop when I reach the pedestals on which we stood before the gong signaled the beginning of the Games. The dirt surrounding the pedestals has been upturned and then packed back neatly. The explosives have been dug up as I expected.

I begin to wonder how I can set off the bombs. Pressure is the key. So, what do I do? Toss a few rocks toward the pyramid and hope that I set one off? No. No, that won't do. I need to cause a chain reaction. I need for more than one bomb to go off. Ideally, I need to find a way to cause all of them to blow. But how?

I can't risk simply setting off one bomb. The Careers would come rushing back, causing me to have to flee and I would have essentially done nothing. I look up to the sky, toward Rue, and see the smoke from our second fire. No doubt the Careers are, or will be soon, suspecting that it's a trick.

I need a plan. Quick. My time is running out.

I glare at the pyramid in front of me. There has to be a solution! There has to be something that I'm not seeing! I have to find it. I have to find the answer. I have to take away the Career's advantage. I have to even the playing field. And I probably have no more than ten minutes to figure out how.

_Come on, come on, come on!_ I think furiously. What can I do? What can I do that will cause all the mines to blow? What can I do that will cause a chain reaction? There has to be something . . .

My eyes alight on the bag of apples. Hanging near the top of the pyramid in a burlap sack, strung up by a rope. My fingers tighten on my bow. I'm a good enough shot. If I can cut the burlap and cause the apples to spill out, falling to the ground . . .

I decide that it's my best bet. I allow myself three arrows to get the job done. My first arrow is already strung, and I take careful aim. Everything around me fades into the background. I only see the burlap sack containing the apples. I hear nothing but the sound of my deep, easy breaths and the thudding of my heartbeat in my ears.

I let the first arrow fly. It cuts through the top of the bag, creating a tear.

I string my second arrow and take aim. I let out a slow breath and release my second arrow. It tears a hole in the burlap and I see an apple teetering precariously on the edge.

I string my third and last arrow. It's now or never. I aim and fire. My arrow cuts through the burlap, creating bigger hole, which causes the apples to spill forth onto the ground.

Everything freezes. I suddenly hear everything. My heart pounding. My quick breaths. The mockingjays. A breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. Everything in my sight is moving in slow motion.

And then it abruptly speeds back up, and I'm blown backward into the air.

* * *

**And kaboom! The supplies are no more. And alas, fear not, Peeta will be back in Chapter 18, which I have dubbed the penultimate chapter . . . aside from Chapter 25. Oh, I do like that chapter, too.**

**The next chapter is very sad. Very, very sad. :(**

**(sniffles)**

**BTW: I'm really going to start advertising my version of CF, which is now titled My Last Breath (ominous title, I know), getting you guys all anxious and ready to read. So I'm going to be sharing one line of dialogue from CF in my A/N. I'll go through a variety of characters, but I think I'll start off with Peeta and try to make you guys swoon. ;)**

**Tiny excerpt from My Last Breath . . .**

**Peeta: "And I don't know about you, but I would _gladly_ go through a hundred different  
arenas if it meant I could still share what was left of my life with you."**

**(fangirly sigh)**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	17. Chapter 17

**********************************A/N: Hey, guys! First off, we're over 600 reviews! 600. Can I just say, WOW! Thank you. I'm amazed by the amount of readers I have for this story, and all of you are so sweet and kind. Thanks again for being awesome and making rewriting this entire series totally worth the hours I spend everyday writing. **

**********************************Okay, this chapter is sad. We all know why. I did my best with it. But, the good thing about this chapter is that Katniss begins her search for Peeta. And he'll be back in all his sexy glory (literally) next chapter. ;)**

**********************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 17

The strength of the blast propels me forcefully to the ground. All the air rushes from my lungs as I slam onto the hard earth. I'm left gasping for breath, which is not very conducive due to the heavy smoke in the air. The ground is quaking beneath me as the bombs continue to detonate, and it's all I can do to keep myself as alert as I can.

My head is throbbing, and I know that my back will be bruised from the impact with the ground. I'm lucky that my quiver is resting in the curve of my elbow; otherwise the strong metal might have broken my shoulder if I had landed on it. However, as I take in all my injuries, there is one that worries me most.

I can't hear.

My ears aren't even _ringing_. The world is silent, and it frightens me more than anything. As a hunter, I rely on my hearing just as much as my sight, perhaps more. I feel off-balance without it. I raise a shaky hand to my left ear, the one that was facing the blast, and feel something wet coat my fingers. When I raise my hand to my face, I see blood. My ear is bleeding. I don't need to be a doctor to know that it's not a good sign.

After a minute or so, the ground stops shaking, and I turn to look back at the devastation I caused. The most exhilarating sense of satisfaction floods me when I see that the pyramid is destroyed, only blackened, smoking, charred bits of rubble left. The ground where the supplies once were is black and burning. My guess is that after the initial explosion, the debris set off the rest of the mines. I look around me and see burning bits of crates and containers. I hadn't even noticed them falling around me. Maybe I blacked out for a second?

Slowly, my brain is beginning to work and get into gear. The Careers are probably thundering through the forest toward the Cornucopia, toward me, after hearing the cacophony of explosions. Explosions that I caused. If I'm still here when they break through the woods, I'm dead.

This thought causes me to rise to my feet, and I automatically know that standing is not a good idea. I'm dizzy. Incredibly dizzy. It's not the woozy dizzy where the world simply spins for a while. No, this dizzy is with the ground beneath your feet refuses to stay solid and the images around you are blurry and ever-changing. I take a step forward, and somehow end up on my hands and knees. Okay, I can't walk. But I can crawl? I begin to make my way back toward the copse Rue found. I have to make it there. If Cato comes back and sees me, I'm dead. I can't possibly defend myself in my state. Rattled and deaf. I wouldn't even hear him approach and then Prim would be forced to watch me die a painful, violent death. No doubt that's what Cato has in store for me.

It's this motivation, the will to protect Prim, which gives me the strength to crawl toward the foliage of the woods. Inch by inch, foot by foot, I make my way toward the safety of the trees. I make it in the knick of time. Literally. The moment that I manage to crawl into the dense shrubbery of Rue's little hideout, the Careers come bursting out of the forest.

I lie in the shrubs for a moment, catching my breath and thanking whatever powers existed for allowing me the precious extra second of concealment before the Careers appeared. I turn on my side and look out toward the Careers.

Cato is furious. No, I think he's beyond fury. I can't hear a thing, but by the way he's raving about, gesticulating wildly, he's throwing a tantrum. If it weren't for the situation I'm in, it would be comical. I never knew that when in a rage, people really did pull their hair and pound their fists on the ground. Clove and Marvel are trying to reason with him, but Cato blows them off. The boy from District 3 tosses a few rocks toward where he'd placed the mines, and I assume he deems it safe because Cato begins to take his anger out on the charred supplies themselves. Kicking over debris. Tossing them in every direction. Clove and Marvel actually have the sense to try and find anything to salvage.

I see the boy from District 3 begin to hedge away from the Careers, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He's right. He needs to run. He's of no more use to them now. Cato must have this realization too because suddenly he's striding toward the boy. District 3 barely has time to turn and run before Cato is on him, his hands wrapped around the boy's neck. Cato's muscles ripple as he violently jerks the boy's head to the side.

I can only assume the cannon fires.

Cato begins to point toward the woods, and I wonder if he plans to go after whoever destroyed the supplies. However, Marvel and Clove argue with him, pointing at the sky. I realize that they probably believe that whoever blew up the supplies was killed in the explosion, the hovercraft having taken the body away before they arrived. Their argument makes sense. A cannon fire would have been easily masked by the detonating bombs. Cato seems to relent to their logic, and they move away from the Cornucopia toward the lake where they sit down and rest, waiting for the hovercraft to take District 3's body.

Night falls and so does the temperature. I reach for my sleeping bag automatically, but I remember that I left it with Rue. Left with no other option, I burrow under some shrubs and make a blanket of leaves and pine needles. I use my backpack to block the wind, and it helps a little. I put on my night vision glasses and they provide me with some relief. At least I have one of my senses. I don't hear the anthem play, but I see the pictures of the dead in the sky. Only the face of District 3 is shown. The Careers now know that the bomber survived the blast.

As the night wears on, I begin to sympathize more with the girl from District 8. But now it's my turn to grit my teeth and tough it out. My mind drifts to Peeta and how I miss his arms around me. I miss his warmth. I miss his smile. I miss his laugh. I simply miss _him_.

I can't remember ever missing someone other than my father. Well, I miss Gale a little, but for some reason Gale and Peeta do not coexist well in my thoughts. That, and I know that Gale doesn't need me. He can hunt. He can take care of himself. I'm all that Peeta has in the arena. He's dying. I know he is.

It's killing me that I might not be able to find him in time.

I know that once I meet up with Rue in the morning, we're immediately setting out and finding him. Peeta's time is running out, and the mere notion of him dying cuts me to my core. I know what it's like to think that he's dead, gone away from me forever. It is awful. More painful than I would have ever imagined. I don't want to go through that again.

I ignore the little voice in my head whispering to me that in order for me to win these Games, Peeta has to die.

That's really the crux of everything. In order for me to win, Peeta must die. So . . . should I let him? Should I leave him? He wants me to win. He even told me on the roof that he expects to die and that it doesn't bother him.

But it bothers _me_.

I can't simply ignore Peeta and allow him to die. I have to try and save him. I have to. He would do the same for me. Hell, who am I kidding? He already has done the same for me. I can't be any further in his debt. I will always owe him my life, but if I save him, he'll owe me _his_ life and we'll be even.

I fall into a restless sleep, dreaming of bread and blue eyes.

When I wake up the next morning, I'm momentarily in a panic when my sight is fractured. It takes me a moment before I realize that it's due to the night vision glasses, and I rip them off my face. I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust to the light, and I notice a ringing in my right ear. This makes me hopeful that my ears are on their way to recovery, even if my left ear is still dead.

I look out to the Cornucopia and notice that the Careers are gone. They're probably out hunting the bomber. Lucky me.

Last night's thoughts of Peeta are seeping into my mind, and I can't help the urgency I feel to find him. But first, I know that I have to meet up with Rue. I collect my gear and begin my trek back to the stream. I find it easily and along the way after about an hour I notice footprints. The Careers have been this way, but they're long gone now. They must have passed through here in the night. The impressions of their feet are deep, but the mud around them is cracked and dry. I don't have to worry about them being near.

I continue on up the stream, silently rejoicing as my right ear continues to regain its ability to hear and transmit sounds. Meanwhile, I'm also fighting an inner state of turmoil and fear as my left ear remains soundless. I paw at it occasionally, trying to get it to ring like my right ear, but it never works. The thought that I may have permanently lost my hearing in my left ear scares me. I find myself constantly looking toward the left, so that my right ear will pick up the sounds that my left ear refuses to. After a while it's almost like I have a twitch.

When I reach the spot where Rue and I were supposed to meet, she's not there. I decide to wait for her. Perhaps she got hung up, and had to settle down for the night in a tree. I wander back to the stream and clean up a little bit, carefully washing away the blood from my hair and my left ear. I probably should have done this sooner, but it didn't cross my mind until now. I spear a couple fish and eat one raw, saving the other for Rue.

When I return to camp, I immediately scale a tree. High above the ground, I feel much better, more secure. I can easily shoot Cato or any other Career from my perch and they can't do a thing to me way up here. My stomach rumbles, and I think that today might be what we call a 'hollow day' in District 12. A day when no matter how much you eat, you don't feel full. However, just to bide some time and distract myself from worried thoughts of Peeta and Rue, I decide to indulge. I eat the rest of the groosling, which is appropriately time consuming because I make a point to pick the bird clean. A handful of berries and greens follow the groosling, and after another hour I eat the fish that I'd saved for Rue. The heat would have soon caused it to spoil and I can easily enough get her a few more when she shows up.

My mind suddenly reminds me that we're down to the final eight tributes. This is typically when the Capitol sends out crews to interview the friends and family of the final eight. I wonder who they'll interview for me. No doubt they will interview my mother and Prim, and I think that they might interview Gale. He is my best friend and the whole district knows it.

I tick off the final eight on my fingers. Marvel from District 1, both Cato and Clove from District 2, Foxface from District 5, Rue and Thresh from 11 and then me and Peeta from 12. It's been a long time since we had anyone from our district make it to the final eight, let alone both tributes.

The hours pass and by midafternoon I can't stand it anymore and decide to look for her. It takes me less than an hour to reach the second campfire, which I see is black and burnt out. In another hour I'm at the place where she was supposed to light the third fire, and I immediately know that something is amiss.

Stacked neatly with expertly dispersed tinder is the third fire. Unlit. Rue set up the fire but was never able to light it. What went wrong? Did she run into some predators? Did she seek the safety of the trees? I briefly wonder if she's dead. If she had been killed early this morning I wouldn't have heard the cannon, my right ear still would have been unable to pick up any sounds at that time. No. No, Rue is alive. She's smart. She'd climb high up in a tree. She has enough food and supplies to last for a couple of days.

I decide that whatever has treed Rue needs to die.

I begin to make my way through the woods, looking for any sign of disturbance. An overturned rock. Broken foliage. Signs of a struggle. Signs of a chase. And then I hear it. A mockingjay signing Rue's little four-note tune. This brings me great relief. The birds must have heard the tune recently; otherwise they wouldn't still be singing it. I begin to move toward the song of the mockingjays, hoping that they will lead me to Rue. I open my mouth and softly sing her song, hoping that the mockingjays will sing it back and Rue will know that I'm coming.

I'm just beginning to think that everything will be fine when I hear a sound that stops my heart and makes my blood run cold. A high-pitched scream of terror, one that only a young voice could produce.

Rue.

Immediately, I'm running, tearing through the underbrush, not caring how much noise I make. I hear her call my name, her voice overcome with terror and desperation. "Katniss! Katniss!"

"Rue!" I call back so that she knows I'm coming. "Rue, I'm coming!"

I break through the trees and find myself in a small meadow. On the ground entangled in a net is Rue. She reaches a hand out toward me . . .

And then a spear pierces her abdomen.

I react faster than I ever thought possible. I have an arrow strung and fired in a second. It's embedded in Marvel's neck before he can blink. He stumbles forward onto his knees and cuts the remaining seconds of his life in half when he rips the arrow from his neck. I barely hear the gurgling sound of him choking on his own blood. I barely hear the cannon sound.

My attention is on Rue. I drop to my knees beside her and throw the net off her. Rue has curled in on herself, as if trying to lessen the pain. I know as soon as I glimpse her wound that there's no saving her. There's a stinging in my eyes as I fight not to cry. I don't bother with comforting words. Rue knows that she's a goner just as well as I do, and I'm not about to insult her intelligence. But when her small hand reaches out for me, I grasp it tightly in mine.

"You blew up the food?" she whispers, her breathing ragged.

"Every last bit," I tell her with a sad smile.

"You have to find Peeta."

I nod my head quickly. "I know. I will. Don't you worry," I say as I gently brush her hair back from her face. I position myself so that I'm close enough to lay her head in my lap, and I continue to run a comforting hand through her hair.

"Sing." I'm barely able to hear her, and I know that she has minutes left to live. Only minutes.

She wants me to sing? What do I sing? I know that I can't deny her this last request, but I'm at a loss as to what to sing. What do you sing as a child is dying? How is anything appropriate for such a tragedy?

The song that comes to me is a lullaby, one that is sung to restless babies to get them to sleep. My father sang it to me, and I, in turn, sang it for Prim more than once when she was little. It's very, very old, made up a long, long time ago. The words are easy and soothing, promising hope.

I cough, swallow hard, and begin:

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm _

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

Rue's eyes flutter shut, and I pause in my song, my voice choking. Her breathing has turned from ragged to shallow and I swallow back tears. This isn't right. It's not fair. Rue begins to gasp softly, fighting for breath. Her time is almost up, but I force myself to sing, to finish the song for her.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daises guard you from every harm._

Rue's eyes meet mine, and I nearly crumble when I see how dazed they are. But what breaks my heart is when she manages a very weak smile. My tears have escaped me now. I can't control their flow, and I do nothing to wipe them away. I simply continue to stroke Rue's hair. The last words of the song are barely audible.

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

I know that Rue's dead before the cannon fires. She's entirely too still in my arms, her hand in mine now slack. And then, disturbingly, the mockingjays pick up my song and begin to sing it back to me. I sit there, cradling Rue's dead body for a long time. I don't know for how long it sit there, hunched protectively over her, but when I bend forward to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, my back protests.

The Gamemakers do no doubt want me to leave so that they can send the hovercraft to pick up the bodies, but I can't force myself to move. I can't leave Rue, not like this. Brutally slain on the ground, curled in on herself. It's just not right.

Anger fills me. It's not fair. It's not right. All of this is the Capitol's fault. Gale's ravings against the Capitol are no longer pointless. My own fury at the Capitol and the injustice that they have inflected consumes me.

Again, I hear Peeta's words in my mind.

_I just want to show them that I'm not a piece in their games._

An eagerness to make the Capitol accountable for Rue's wrongful death consumes me. I want to show them that Rue was not a piece in their games. I want to show them that I'm not either. I want to show them that there is a part of every one of us that they can never own.

I stray from Rue's body only far enough to collect wildflowers that are strewn about the little meadow. They might be weeds, but they have beautiful small blossoms of violet and yellow and white, and they will serve their purpose well. When I have a small bouquet, I make my way back to Rue and kneel beside her, placing the flowers stem by stem around her. I cover her gruesome wound. I surround her with the blossoms, threading them through her hair, creating a colorful halo.

When I've done all I can do, I stand and place three fingers to my lips before holding them out toward her. And then I walk away without turning back, murmuring, "Goodbye Rue," just as a mockingjay sings her song. I pause just long enough to take Marvel's pack. As a Career, I'm hoping that he carried some good stuff with him that I didn't blow up.

I wonder if they showed my tribute to Rue, or if they cut to another tribute. No doubt that the Gamemakers would hide my sign of sympathy, my own little form of rebellion against the Capitol and their cruelty. I must walk for half a mile before my anger at them begins to fade and my brain begins to think logically.

Peeta.

I have to find Peeta.

The thought begins to consume me. Find Peeta. My eyes flit to the sky, which is turning dusky, and I curse quietly as I realize that I won't make it to Peeta today. If what Rue said is true, and she followed him to the stream, there's no way I'll be able to make it within the mere hour of daylight left. The stream is practically an entire day's walk from where I am, if I'm guessing right and my sense of direction hasn't been lost.

I resolve to try and make it as far as I can before night falls, and take off at a jog through the forest. I follow the stream for a while until I reach the spot where Rue and I became allies. Dark has almost settled in, but I can't find it within me to stop. I feel guilty for leaving Peeta alone for so long. The thought of him lying somewhere, slowly bleeding to death, all alone, wrenches my already aching heart.

So I pull out my night vision glasses and continue on through the night. My sight through the glasses is oddly perplexing. I can see everything fine, but it looks so different from the day. I quickly adjust to it though and by midway through the night, I've made it back to where we fought the Careers and I shot down the tracker jacker nest.

Common sense finally wins out over my intense desire to find Peeta. I know that I'll be useless to him if I'm dead on my feet. I quickly scale the tree, going much higher than necessary, not for safety but only to feel as though I'm distancing myself from all that happened today.

Earlier in the night the anthem played and I saw Marvel and Rue in the sky. We were down to the final six. There were just six of us left. Only six. These Games were winding down.

Suddenly, I see the blinking light of a dropping silver parachute floating down to me. I wonder what Haymitch thinks that I need, because I doubt he's just sending me something out of the kindness of his heart. I frown slightly as I open the parachute and see that it's a piece of bread. A dark-grain loaf shaped in a crescent. I'm able to identify it only because of Peeta, who one day at lunch during training had emptied an entire bread basket and showed me all the breads from every district. This bread was from District 11.

Surely it had been meant for Rue. So why give it to me? I can't imagine how many people from 11 would have had to scrape up a coin in order to send this. But, instead of simply tossing it aside when Rue died, they authorized Haymitch to give it to me. That's a first for the Games.

I look up at the sky. "My thanks to the people of District 11," I say softly.

I carefully tuck the bread away in my pack before finally settling in to sleep. My eyes close and I will myself to escape into unconsciousness. I hope that I'm graced with a nice dream. A visit from my father, maybe.

But when I dream, all I hear is music, sung in the sweet voice of a little girl.

* * *

**Rue died. I know. Very sad, but a necessary evil.**

**But, on the bright side, Peeta is BACK next chapter. Next chapter is awesome for a variety of reasons. It's my second favorite chapter because of these mysterious various reasons. I'm anxious for you guys to read it. Really excited.**

**And *drum roll* we have today's quote from My Last Breath, my version of CF.**

**Today's special guest star is none other than Mrs. Mellark: "Then again, he's never been very much to be proud of."**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Oh, goodie, Peeta is BACK! Woo! Let's party, everyone! **

**Oh, and I have an announcement . . . I finished CF! Yes! Finally, it is DONE. 35 chapters; 167,000 words. It's a beast. I'm currently going back and editing. After that, it's on to Mockingjay! Woo! Oh, and just to warn you guys way, way, way in advance . . . my ending to CF? . . . heartbreaking. Just sayin'. Oh, Peeta . . .**

**Yeah, I know. I'm a tease. (evil laugh)**

**Okay, back to this chapter! Peeta is back and Katniss is . . . well . . . Katniss. But, alas, great things happen this chapter. Trust me. Great things. Wonderful things. **

**So . . . let's get to it!**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 18

I can literally feel myself resurfacing from unconsciousness. Layer by layer I break through the haze until my eyes flash open. Purpose fills me and leaves me wide awake. Within seconds after getting my bearings, I'm climbing from my sleeping bag and scaling my tree back down to the ground.

As I begin to pack up I realize that I've yet to go through Rue's pack. I take all the food and her waterskin, and I make sure to grab all the leaves that extract the tracker jacker venom. I don't know how many times Peeta was stung, and I might need more than I have. It's with this thought that I quickly locate a bush with matching leaves and pick some. I'm sure I have more than enough now.

Next, I tear through the backpack I stole from Marvel. I salvage some dried fruit, a water bottle, and a first aid kit. I don't bother to look through it. I don't feel as though I have that kind of time. I'm simply grateful that I have something that will be of use to Peeta.

When I'm done sorting through all the packs I sling my pack, Rue's pack, and my quiver over my shoulder and take a deep breath, clutching my bow in my free hand. I stand exactly where I did when Peeta and I had our fight with the Careers. I close my eyes and picture it all. I try to remember if I heard or saw anything that would give me a hint as to where he went. Rue told me that she tracked him to the stream by a blood trail, but I wanted to do this my way. Besides, the trail Rue followed was fresh. It's days old now and probably gone.

All I can remember is his cry of pain right before the tracker jackers hit. I don't even know if he stopped fighting when they fell. What worries me is that Peeta would have succumbed to the venom faster than Cato, who is bigger and therefore the venom would have taken longer to take hold of him. Peeta would have been smart enough to see this and try to get away as quick as he could.

My eyes open and I glance to my right where I believe Peeta and Cato fought. If Peeta had turned and ran . . . my eyes follow the path I think he would have taken. Immediately, I'm following what I think is close to the path that Peeta took when fleeing the tracker jackers. I follow the trail for fifteen minutes without any sign that someone like Peeta trampled through, when I spot a broken bush that looks like someone plowed right through it.

I rush to the shrub and see dried spots of blood. I'm on the right trail. I continue to follow the trail and slowly I see more and more signs that Peeta went this way. Overturned rocks. Snapped twigs. Half a boot print. However, when the terrain becomes more and more rocky, I begin to second-guess myself. Could Peeta really have navigated this terrain, hallucinating from tracker jacker venom and bleeding from a major wound?

My feet still carry me forward, and five minutes later I spot a boulder with a smeared, bloody handprint on it. Like someone, a hallucinating someone, tried to wipe away a blood trail. I find my legs carrying me forward at a faster pace. I see the stream. It's fairly wide, though shallow at this point, and I wonder if Peeta would have tried to cross it. I follow the water downstream for a while, searching for any sign of Peeta until I eventually can't stand it.

"Peeta!" I whisper harshly. "Peeta!"

I take another step and suddenly I hear, "Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

I freeze. The voice came from my left, so I couldn't hear it well, and the voice was hoarse and tired. It had to be Peeta, though. Something within me begins to flutter and come to life, and I realize that a smile is beginning to pull at the corners of my mouth.

"Peeta?" I call again, this time a little louder. I edge along the bank toward my left, but all I can see are muddy leaves and twigs and plants at the bases of the rocks that meander alongside the stream. "Peeta! Where are you?" I ask softly.

I take another step. "Well, don't step on me."

My eyes immediately dart down to my feet, but all I see is mud and leaves. Until, suddenly, I see a pair of the loveliest, bluest eyes I will ever see. I drop to my knees. "Peeta?"

I'm rewarded with a flash of white teeth as he laughs.

It's official. Peeta Mellark is the king of camouflage. "Close your eyes," I tell him and he obediently does so, his smile vanishing . . . causing him to vanish as well. I judge where the rest of his body is and I honestly can't tell where he is. All I see is mud and leaves and plants, artfully configured to disguise him.

"Peeta, you're amazing," I say and he opens his eyes again, and I find that I'm very grateful. I don't want to take my eyes off of him, afraid that he'll really disappear.

"It's good to see you," he says softly.

If he weren't covered in mud from head to toe, I think I might have laid a gentle hand on his face, maybe swept away the hair that I know would have been hanging in his eyes.

"It'll be nice to see you to," I say, trying to lighten the mood a little. "Where did Cato cut you?"

I can practically see the pain multiply tenfold in Peeta's eyes when I mention the wound. "Left leg. Up high."

My brain begins to think of a plan, things that I need to do. First, I need to examine his wounds, and to do that I need to get him to the stream and clean him up. "Let's get you into the stream," I say. "Clean you up and see what kind of wounds you have."

"And here I just thought you wanted to see me naked," Peeta manages to joke and I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. At this point, with my growing joy of having found him continuing to build within me, Peeta could probably say just about anything and I'd laugh.

"In your dreams," I say with a scoff.

"What do you think I've been doing the past few days?" he retorts with a smile. "Aside from dying."

I take it back. There are a few things he can say that will never cause a laugh to escape my lips.

"You're not going to die." It comes out of my mouth like an order.

"Says who?" His voice is so ragged and tired. It worries me.

"Says me," I tell him fiercely. "I won't lose you. Not again."

This seems to confuse him a little, but I pay it no mind. A bubble of emotion, all the trauma and stress from the past few days is culminating within me, but I shove it to the back of my mind. All my focus is on Peeta.

The stream is only two feet from us. How hard can it be to move him? I quickly learn that it's near impossible. Peeta has just enough strength not to resist when I try to move him. He can't help me at all, and I'm not near strong enough to drag all two hundred pounds of him the mere two feet into the stream. And that's not mentioning all the mud and plants that have practically adhered themselves to both Peeta and the rock. I eventually have to give him a sharp tug in order to set him free of their clutches. No matter how hard I try to be gentle and make the process as painless as possible, and no matter how hard Peeta tries to keep silent, a pained cry will escape him at practically every movement. I've been able to drag him just far enough away from where he'd sealed himself into the bank when I can't take it anymore.

"Okay, new plan," I say after I see tears cutting through the dirt on his face.

"That would be tremendously appreciated," he manages to say, though pain is etched into every syllable.

"I'm going to try and roll you, okay?" I say and Peeta's eyes meet mine, anxiety and pain written in them. "Just once," I try and reassure him. "You've got to be closer to the water. Grit your teeth and suck it up, Mellark."

Peeta's lips twitch up in a small smile.

And he promptly loses it when I begin to roll him over. I've never heard so many curses in one sentence, so colorfully combined. When I finally have Peeta resting about a foot from the stream, his breathing is ragged and his body is shaking in pain. I have never felt so guilty.

"Sorry," I apologize softly.

The fact that Peeta doesn't respond tells me how much pain he's truly in.

I don't dwell on this though. I can't afford to. I focus on what I have to do next, and that's wash all the mud off him. I open my pack and take out my two water bottles and Rue's waterskin. I set two in the stream so that they are constantly full or refilling, and begin the long process of washing the mud off of Peeta.

Gently, I wash the dirt from his face and hair. I'm desperate to see his face, and when I do, I can't help but smile softly. "Found you," I joke quietly and Peeta rewards me with a small smile in return.

"Lean down," he says. "Need to tell you something."

I do as he asks and lean over and put my good ear to his lips. It tickles as he says, "Remember, we're madly in love, so feel free to kiss me anytime you feel like it."

His words cause me to laugh softly, and I whisper in his ear. "We'll see about that, Mellark."

To the cameras and the rest of the people of the Capitol, I hope that it looks like we're whispering sweet nothings. After all, Peeta is right. We're, according to Clove, the star-crossed lovers from District 12. No doubt that the Captiol is rejoicing at our reunion, but I'm momentarily angered by the fact that they don't care that Peeta's dying, not really. They just want to see the drama unfold.

It takes me a good while, but I finally rinse enough mud from Peeta's body to see his clothes that were hidden underneath. Gently, I unzip his jacket and then unbutton his shirt, easing them off of him. I have to cut through his undershirt to get it off him because he doesn't have the strength to pull it over his head, and when I tried all the movement was pulling at his wound so I took the easy way out and simply cut it away.

The odd thought that if the situation weren't so dire, I might be more distracted by the sight of a shirtless Peeta occurs to me, and I force myself not to blush, even though my eyes betray me and sneak a glance at his broad, bare chest. I shouldn't even be noticing these things, and I ignore the odd heat that warms me anytime I'm in his presence.

I decide to treat his upper body first before tackling the wound on his leg. Since he's basically laying in a mud puddle after all the mud I've washed off of them, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. In this upright position, I'm able to see just how bad off Peeta really is. His skin, which normally holds a sun-kissed glow, is paler than I've ever seen. He no longer looks strong, and his shoulders are sagging within an unseen, heavy weight.

His torso is covered in bruises that look days old, and I deduce that they're from his fights with the boy from District 4 at the Cornucopia and then his most recent fight with Cato. He has four tracker jacker stings, including one below his ear. This actually puts me at ease a little. These are things that I can fix. I quickly apply Rue's remedy of leaves to his stings after pulling the stingers from the wounds, and he sighs in relief.

I decide that Peeta's earned a break, and I let him rest as I busy myself with washing his jacket and shirt in the stream and then spreading them out on a boulder so that the sun can dry them. Once I'm finished with that task, I return to Peeta's side.

My hand moves without a thought to his face, resting gently on his cheek before caressing his jaw line. Peeta's eyes open, and their hypnotizing blue cause me to remain still. I feel my heart beat thudding faster in my ears, my stomach does a quick flip, and I find myself moving closer to him. Before I realize what I'm doing, my lips meet his.

Our kiss is very brief, mainly because I'm shocked and Peeta is as well, I can tell. My lips stay glued to his for only a second or two, long enough for me to think that his lips are incredibly soft and that he also has a fever. I pull back and we stare at each other for a moment. And then Peeta grins, looking like he could stare at me forever and be perfectly content. "I've been waiting for that a long time," he says softly, his grin still in place.

Though the Capitol probably sees this comment as cute, I know that Peeta is serious. I don't know exactly how long he's been in love with me, but knowing Peeta like I do, it's probably been a while. For some reason, my mind flashes back to my conversation with Rue about love, but I immediately stop that train of thought. Her death is still far too recent and painful.

To distract myself, I begin to dig through my pack to find the first aid kit that I took from Marvel. Inside I see what I'm looking for, pills that reduce temperature. Occasionally, when my mother's own remedies do not work, she will break down and buy these little capsules.

I take two from the bottle and give them to him. "Swallow these," I tell him and he does so without a word.

The thought occurs to me that Peeta probably hasn't eaten since before we were separated. "You must be hungry."

"No, not really," he says. "I haven't been hungry for days."

When I hold out a bit of rabbit for him, he wrinkles his nose and turns his head away. I frown. This is bad. He's even sicker than I thought. I know that if I hadn't found him today, he probably would have been dead tomorrow.

The thought makes my stomach clench.

"Peeta, we need to get some food into you," I say firmly. I fish around in my pack and find some dried bits of apple. I put them in his hand. "Eat it."

Peeta and I have a staring contest, a silent battle of wills, but it doesn't take long before Peeta caves and begins to nibble on the dried fruit. If he eats even half I'll be pleased, but when he manages to eat it all, I allow myself a little smile. Peeta couldn't stand to disappoint me.

I notice that his eyelids keep fluttering. "You can sleep in a minute," I tell him and his half-lidded gaze finds me. "I need to look at your leg."

As carefully as I can, I remove his boots, socks, and pants, which I manage to remove without blushing. However, any thoughts about blushing I have are gone when I get my first look at the gash on his thigh. It's worse than I ever could have imagined. His leg itself is swollen. The skin around the wound is festering and the smell is terrible. The wound itself is hideous, oozing blood and pus.

I want to throw up. I want to flee, disappear into the woods like I do when mother or Prim are doctoring a patient with a bad wound. But I force myself to stay put. Peeta needs me. I'm all he has, and he's all that I have. I try and adopt the calm demeanor my mom does when dealing with a badly injured patient.

Peeta, unfortunately, as always, sees right through me. "Let me guess. It looks just as bad as it feels."

"Let's just be glad it doesn't look even worse, then," I say in response. "I still need to clean it."

I scoot my sheet of plastic underneath him, and then pour water bottle after water bottle over the wound. With each pour, the extent of his wound is further revealed to me. The cut is all the way to the bone, inches deep and filled with infection.

I rummage through the little first aid kit and find the usual simple things. Bandages. Gauze. Tape. Fever reducers. Nothing near the caliber I need to treat Peeta. Where are the heavy pain killers and antibiotics? Of course they wouldn't supply those. They might actually help you live.

The leaves that I use on the tracker jacker stings draw out infection, so I decide that they're worth a shot. I'm proven right when, after a few minutes of pressing the chewed-up leaves in the wound, a river of pus begins to flow out of the wound and down his leg. Even though the wound is revolting and I feel my breakfast threaten to come up every few seconds, I tough it out. I rinse his leg and then apply another round of leaves to the wound, causing yet _another_ river of pus to spill forth that is so revolting I know that I'm probably as green as a tree in spring. But I keep going until the wound actually looks moderately better.

This is after four rounds of leaves and a buckets-worth of pus.

"Okay . . ." I think of what my next move should be. "Let's put some burn cream on it and then wrap it up." The burn cream should help fight off infection and it can't hurt either way.

A problem occurs to me after I've wrapped up his wound in sterile, white-cotton bandages, and see the contrasting white against the once-white of his undershorts. I've left them on because one, I am not immune to nakedness like my mother and Prim, and unlike them, I find it extremely embarrassing. My second reason for leaving Peeta in his undershorts was all of the first reason, compounded by the fact that it's _Peeta_.

But against the sterile white of his bandages, his shorts look like an infection waiting to happen, and I sigh in defeat. I reach around and grab Rue's backpack. "Here," I say. "Cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts."

"Oh, I don't care if you see me," Peeta says lightly, despite his situation.

"Well, I do," I say before turning around and staring out toward the stream. A few moments later, the shorts splash into the water in front of me, and I think that he must be feeling a little bit better if he can throw.

"You know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person," he tells me in amusement.

I scoff as I clean his shorts. "You know, if you're just going to make fun of me, I'll just leave you right here."

"Why not?" Peeta asks. "I'm as good as dead anyway."

His words prompt me to spin around and face him. "Stop saying that."

"It's true."

"The hell it is," I snap. "You are not going to die. I'm not letting you die. Got it?"

Peeta studies my face for a minute. "Got it."

"Good," I say before returning to the task of cleaning his shorts.

Peeta dozes off soon after our brief argument and I let him sleep while his clothes dry out. However, by late afternoon when the sun starts to dwindle, I don't dare to wait any longer. There's no telling where Cato and Clove are, and I really don't want to run into them. If they got the jump on us, there's no way I'd be able to fend them both off. I haven't even seen Thresh since the Cornucopia, and Foxface is as good as invisible until she decides to show herself.

I shake Peeta's shoulder. "Peeta, wake up." Sleepy blue eyes stare up at me. "We've got to go."

"Go?" he repeats confused. "Go where?"

"Away from here," I say mildly. "Downstream. We've got to get you someplace safe until you're stronger."

I help him dress, and then together, we manage to get Peeta on his feet. Immediately, his face drains of all its remaining color as he puts weight on his leg. We step into the stream, and we're able to go about fifty yards before I see that Peeta's about to pass out. I sit him down on a rock and put his head between his knees, rubbing his back absentmindedly as my eyes scan for somewhere near to hide.

My eyes spy a cave about twenty yards above the stream, and I know that it's the best I'm going to be able to find. Peeta will barely be able to make the journey to the cave as it is. When he's ready, I help him back to his feet and then half-carry, half-drag him up to the cave.

The cave is a fairly good size, considering everything. Definitely manageable for two people. I make a bed of pine needles and then lay the sleeping bag over it before ordering Peeta into the sleeping bag. He does so without complaint, and when he appears settled, I attempt to camouflage the mouth of the cave.

After thirty minutes of work, I promptly tear it all down in aggravation. My mess of vines and greenery may have fooled an animal, but it would have been blaringly obvious to a human. We're better off not camouflaging the entrance at all.

I return to Peeta's side and give him more fever pills. He takes them and for a moment we're quiet . . . and then I feel his eyes on me. I meet his gaze and he smiles a little. "Aren't you going to crawl in with me?"

I hesitate, but Peeta makes a weak motion with his hand, waving me over. "Come here," he pleads softly. "I've missed holding you."

_I've missed being held_, I think before I can stop myself. But, looking into Peeta's eyes, I know that I can't deny him and I'm selfish enough to give in. I slide into the sleeping bag with him, making sure to be on his right side, away from his injured leg. My head fits easily onto his shoulder, and I'm careful of his wound when our legs tangle together.

Peeta hums in contentment. "That's better."

In the silent dark of the night, with nothing left to distract me, I feel myself begin to crack. The stress of the last few days has been overwhelming. The fight with the Careers, resulting in my very first kill in the Games. Meeting up with precious, sweet Rue, only to hold her has she took her last breath. Killing Marvel, the one responsible for her death.

And Peeta. Thinking that I had lost him forever. Going an entire day thinking that Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread, was dead. Lost to me. Gone. Abandoning me, leaving me alone.

Only to get him back. Here I am, my head on his shoulder like the nights before. His arms wrapped around me, holding me too him. He's _here_. With me. _Alive_.

I don't notice the tears sliding down my face until Peeta's thumb is tenderly brushing them away. "It's okay," he whispers to me soothingly. "It's okay, Katniss."

I shake my head, which causes me to nuzzle his neck. It is most definitely not okay. Peeta, who, for all intents and purposes is on his death bed, is comforting _me_. Because I, Katniss Everdeen, am too weak to hold it together—overcome by swells of emotion that I don't know how to handle.

"What did you mean earlier?" he asks me quietly. "About not losing me again?"

Tears are still sliding down my cheeks, but I'm not sobbing. I'm too weary to summon the energy. So my voice comes out relatively steady as I begin to explain. "When we were fighting the Careers, I shot down the tracker jacker nest. And . . . and right before it hit the ground . . . I heard you cry out. I knew you were hurt, but then the tracker jackers attacked and I-I didn't think. I just ran. But then the venom overcame me and I blacked out." My mind flashes back to the day when I woke up. The loneliness and panic that I'd felt. "When I woke up . . . you . . . you weren't there." The words pass my lips barely audible.

"I-I ran back to the place where we fought, and I saw all the blood and . . ." I swallow. "I just . . . I thought that . . ."

"Hey," Peeta murmurs soothingly into my hair. "It's okay. I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Peeta!" I whisper harshly, choking on a rogue sob. "I spent a whole day thinking you were dead before Rue told me different. And now . . . and now I just got you back and you . . . you still might die . . ."

"I thought you weren't going to let that happen," Peeta reminds me.

"I'm not," I confirm. "I won't." No. Peeta Mellark is most certainly going to live. There is no other option. It _will_ happen. Because I simply can't lose him. He's my partner, my friend, but more.

Unnamed emotion swirls within my chest.

My conversation with Rue pops into my head, and I can't fight against it this time. I'm surprised when it's not her words I hear in my head, but my own.

_Love is when you can't imagine surviving without him._

I don't have time to dwell on this scary thought because suddenly, Claudius Templesmith's voice is resonating throughout the arena. I listen, shocked, as he tells us that there has been a rule change. A rule change! This must be a first. No one changes the rules of the Hunger Games. What has caused this to happen? I listen intently as the voice of the Hunger Games explains the new rule. Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be crowned victor if they are the last two alive. He repeats this message twice, as if worried that we wouldn't understand it the first time.

My eyes meet Peeta's, and I see that his eyes are just as wide and excited as mine. "We can go home," he breathes, but I shake my head.

"We _will_ go home," I correct.

Joy is filling me, surprise and astonishment. I imagine I'm feeling almost giddy. Peeta and I can go home. Together. We can both live. We can both win.

Like earlier in the day when I stared into Peeta's blue eyes, I can't look away. The happiness in his eyes, the love in his eyes is drawing me in. My lips meet his again, and this time I don't pull back. Though technically this is my second kiss, I'm counting it as my first. An odd, yet exhilarating fire begins to burn in my stomach. Peeta's hand comes up to cradle the side of my face as our lips continue to move in tandem, and when we break away I can't help but lean into his touch and gaze into his eyes that are reflecting my own joy right back at me.

I hear my own voice in my head again. _Love is when you can't imagine surviving without him._

And then it hits me, crashing into me with the impact of meeting the Capitol train head-on. The realization that I knew was coming. The door in my mind that I'd kept resolutely locked. Shock, horror, and an overwhelming feeling of warmth flood me from my head to my toes as I realize what has happened to me.

I've fallen in love with Peeta Mellark.

* * *

**Booyah! FINALLY. She loves Peeta, and she knows it! Woo! **

**Okay, let's see . . . what line do I want to share from My Last Breath? Hmm . . . I think it's Katniss's turn, don't you think? :)**

**Katniss: "It's the first time you aren't shirtless and dying." **

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: WOW. I'm over 700, people! This is now officially my most reviewed story, so THANK YOU for being awesome and clicking that pesky little 'review' button. You rock my socks off.**

**Alrighty! Little update on what I'm up to. I finished editing all of My Last Breath, thank goodness. And . . . prepare yourselves . . . I have written the first chapter of Mockingjay. It makes me giggle just thinking about it. This is also why I didn't get a chance to reply to your lovely reviews. At least you know I wasn't just ignoring you, right? :)**

**And now I revert back to this story. So . . . let's see . . . Katniss realizes that she loves Peeta! It only took eighteen chapters. So, I guess the next step is how she takes this realization? Hmm . . . let's find out!**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews! . . . still think I own HG?**

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Chapter 19

I lay there, my head on Peeta's shoulder, thoroughly shocked by my realization.

_I'm in love with Peeta Mellark._

It repeats over and over in my head, and the longer it goes on, the more permanent it seems. I struggle to fight it, because I _can't_ be in love with Peeta. I can't be in love with _anyone_. It ruins everything. Makes everything more complicated. This wasn't a part of my plan. I wasn't going to be in a relationship. I wasn't going to get married. I wasn't going to have children.

Love led to all of these things.

I'm torn from my thoughts when I hear a clank. My head pops up from Peeta's shoulder, and I look toward the mouth of the cave. The blinking light of a silver parachute—Haymitch. I shimmy out of the sleeping bag, ignoring Peeta's murmured complaint, and reach for it.

Excitement is bubbling in me. Has Haymitch sent me something to help Peeta? I open the parachute, and then frown slightly in disappointment. Haymitch's gift is a mere pot of broth, steaming and hot. No doubt it is for Peeta, but it isn't exactly the miraculous healing medicine that I was naively hoping for.

Haymitch's message is clear. One kiss equals a pot of broth. I guess that, like me, he didn't count my first kiss at the stream either. I can almost hear him in my head. "Come on! You're supposed to be madly in love! Give me something to work with, sweetheart!"

If only Haymitch knew of my recent realization. I bet that would give him something to work with.

I sigh quietly, but nonetheless grip the pot of broth tightly and retreat back into the cave. "Look what Haymitch sent you," I tell him with a small smile.

Peeta looks at the broth in trepidation and then back up at me. "You're going to make me eat all of this, aren't you?"

"You're catching on quick," I say, and Peeta's sighs, accepting his fate.

The first couple of spoonfuls go down without a fight, but as we reach the halfway point, Peeta begins to put up a fight. "Come on, you're halfway there," I coax him. "Don't quit on me now."

That gets me three more spoonfuls before he's shaking his head again. I try a new tactic this time, when coaxing doesn't work. Threatening. I'm good at threatening. "I'll leave you right here in this cave, Peeta."

That gets me four more spoonfuls.

We're reaching the last of the pot, and Peeta is adamant that he can't eat anymore. I resort to something that scares me and thrills me at the same time. I kiss him. The odd fire in my stomach isn't near as hot as it was earlier. Instead, it feels like a slow-burning. Embers . . . always ready to ignite into something more. Our kiss is short, but it leaves Peeta looking dazed, though it's a happy dazed.

He finishes the broth, and I make him lay back down in the sleeping bag. Peeta looks at me expectantly, but I shake my head. "Go to sleep, Peeta."

"Not without you."

"I'll be right here." I scoot closer to him to prove my point, and Peeta shifts so that his head is leaning against my thigh. Without a thought, my fingers move to brush his hair back from his face, and Peeta's eyes close involuntarily before he forces them open again. I continue my actions, occasionally venturing to caress the side of his face or to trail my fingertips along his jaw. Within minutes Peeta is asleep.

As the night goes on, the temperature continues to drop. The Gamemakers are really going for extremes in the weather of the arena this year. It's becoming unbearably hot during the day and freezing cold at night. I'm tempted to climb into the sleeping bag with Peeta, but I don't. Not yet anyway.

I'm on edge, thinking of how Cato and Clove are probably out and about. Well, I begin to think, maybe not. The cold must be affecting them as much as everyone else. And there are only two of them. They are the only Careers left. Maybe they'll wait for the day to hunt down tributes. I haven't seen Thresh since the Games began, but something tells me that he's doing alright, that he knows how to live off the land as well as Rue. Foxface, well, Foxface will be as conniving and sly as always.

This is why I stay awake, my bow loaded with an arrow, gripped tightly in my hands as I stare at the mouth of the cave, ready for an attack. We're vulnerable, extremely so. We're on the ground, confined to a cave with only one way out, and Peeta is dying, despite my best efforts.

After another hour of freezing in the cold, I give in and slip into the sleeping bag next to Peeta. He wakes just enough to wrap his arms around me before he falls back into unconsciousness. The sleeping bag is toasty warm, and I relish the sensation for a few moments. However, I realize that the sleeping bag is _too_ warm. My hand comes up to feel Peeta's forehead and he's burning up. What do I do? Do I leave him in the sleeping bag, hoping that the excessive heat will break his fever? Or do I get him out of the sleeping bag and hope that the night air cools him off? In the end, I simply wet a piece of cloth and put it on his forehead.

The night continues like this. My eyes trained on the cave entrance, my bow resting against my side, ready to be picked up at a moment's notice. When the dull light of dawn begins to seep into the cave, I discover that Peeta's fever has broken. Not completely, but he's gone down a few degrees.

Gently, I ease myself out of the sleeping bag, which is tricky because even in sleep, Peeta refuses to let me go, and it brings a small smile to my lips. I grab the iron pot that Peeta's broth came in and take it down with me to the stream. I fill it with water, and then find a bush with Rue's berries on them.

I pop a few into my mouth as I create a berry mush in the pot for Peeta. As I work, I can't help but let my mind wonder to the fact that I'm in love with him. I'm frustrated and confused. It wasn't supposed to happen. I was in these Games because I had volunteered to save Prim. It was always about Prim. I was going to live for Prim. I was going to win for Prim.

Nowhere in my grand scheme did falling in love have a place.

And yet here I am, in love . . . I think. My mind goes through my entire journey so far, starting at the reaping and continuing on until the moment that I'm currently in. Unthinkingly keeping his hand in mine as the anthem played at the reaping. The night on the train when he said we were friends, and I accepted the title, even though I knew that it wasn't what we were. Reaching for his hand when we arrived in the Capitol as we were swarmed by reporters. The days in the Training Center. Him holding me after my session with the Gamemakers. Our conversations on the roof.

My mind flashes to my conversation with Cinna after Peeta asked to be coached separately. Cinna had been sincere in the belief that Peeta cared about me. He had also said something. Something that I realize now was a big clue. I had admitted how confused Peeta made me feel, how I didn't know.

_Perhaps you'll figure it out in time._ Cinna had told me with a smile. Of course Cinna had known, while I had remained oblivious.

I shake my head a little as I continue to work. My mind skips ahead to the moment on the roof, the night before the Games. Peeta admitting his love for me as a truth, not something contrived for the Games. Retreating back to my room, where we held each other until we fell asleep.

I can't place the moment when it happened, when I fell in love with him. He just . . . snuck up on me. I shake these thoughts away when I deem that Peeta's breakfast is as good as it's going to get, and make my way back up to the cave. I'm greeted with the sight of Peeta trying to pull himself up.

"Where do you think you're going?" I ask.

"I woke up and you weren't here," he tells me, and I can't help but notice they are almost the exact words I used last night. I flash back to the panic that I had felt when I'd woken up without him, and immediately feel guilty.

"I was worried about you," Peeta continues, though I can't help but shake my head, a dry laugh escaping me.

"You were worried about me?" I repeat. "Have you seen yourself lately?"

"I thought Cato and Clove might have found you," he tells me seriously. "They like to hunt at night."

"With how cold these nights are getting? I doubt it."

Peeta sees the pot in my hand, and frowns. "You're going to make me eat again."

"Yep," I say lightly. "There's just the six of us left, by the way," I continue. "There's you and me, Cato and Clove, and then Thresh and Foxface."

Peeta nods, but I can see the question in his eyes. He wants to ask about Rue, but he doesn't. I'm grateful, so grateful that he knows me well enough to see that I'm not ready to talk about it.

I feed Peeta the berry mush and he eats it without complaint, but he turns up his nose at the bit of rabbit that I offer him, so I eat it myself. I also eat a few of Rue's roots and a few more berries before I lean back against the cave wall next to Peeta.

His hand comes up to trail his fingers along my cheek, and my eyes close of their own accord. "You didn't sleep," he observes knowingly.

"How would you know?" I quip. "You're were snoring like a drunk Haymitch."

"I thought we established the fact that I don't snore a long time ago," Peeta says, reminding me of the night before the Games.

I scoff.

"Go to sleep, Katniss," he orders softly. "I'll keep watch. You can't stay awake forever."

He's right. I know he is. But that doesn't stop me from giving him a mild glare before I lay down. It's far too hot in the sleeping bag, so I smooth it out and lay on top of it. I make sure that my bow is gripped in my free hand, ready to be used at a moment's notice. I feel Peeta's hand sweeping away some strands of hair on my forehead.

"You wake me up in a couple of hours," I tell him.

"Go to sleep," is his response.

My eyes slip closed and I'm lulled into unconsciousness, Peeta's hand still stroking my hair.

I know the moment that I open my eyes I've been asleep far too long. The afternoon sun is lighting the cave, and I look up to glare at Peeta. "You were supposed to wake me."

Peeta shrugs. "For what? Nothing's going on here." He grins down at me. "Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot."

Of course, as I'm sure he intended, his comment causes me to scowl, and he chuckles. "If you weren't hurt, I'd hit you," I tell him as I wipe the sleep from my eyes.

"Always so violent."

"You love it."

"Katniss, not in from of all of Panem," Peeta chides me, finding the strength to smirk, and I my eyes widen as I realize the innuendo.

"Peeta!" I chastise, blushing furiously.

"Two older brothers," he reminds me. "I can't help it."

All the levity Peeta has managed to create is zapped when I undress his wound. The blood and pus is gone, but instead, the skin is shiny and tight due to excessive swelling. But all of this fades to insignificance when I see the red lines snaking up his leg. Blood poisoning. I could use all the leaves and ointment in the world, and it would make no difference. I need the superior drugs of the Capitol to treat this. Haymitch. Could Haymitch send the medicine? Do we have enough sponsors? The price of the medicine would have been astronomical at the start of the Games, and the price to send things into the arena only increase as the Games progress. If Haymitch pooled all our sponsor money, would he have enough?

"There's swelling, but the pus is gone," I say, my voice still coming out shaky despite my best efforts.

Peeta is shaking his head, a sad smile on his face. "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss. Even if my mother isn't a healer."

"You'll be fine." I redress his wound. "You're strong. You'll just have to outlast the others. You'll be fine," I repeat. "They'll cure it at the Capitol when we win."

"Sounds like a plan," Peeta says, but I know it's only to placate me, and somehow that makes it worse. Peeta is always trying to protect me, even when it's my job to protect him, like now.

"You have to eat," I say. "Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup."

I grab the pot and some roots and greens from my pack. "Don't light a fire," Peeta says. "It's not worth it."

"We'll see."

When I step out into the sun, the heat of the day is bearing down relentlessly. Already, I feel a bead of sweat form on the back of my neck. I head to the stream and fill the pot with water. The heat from the stones beneath my feet is radiating up to me, and I'm struck with an idea.

Maybe I won't have to start a fire at all.

I set my water-filled pot on a bed of the hot rocks and then place a few in the pot itself. With the heat of the rocks and the sun, the water is quickly warm. I mince some of the rabbit meat and toss it into the pot, followed by Rue's greens and roots. I'm no cook, not by any means, but since soup is essentially stuff thrown together in a pot with water, it's one of my better dishes. I hunt for some more greens along the stream to spice up my recipe a bit, and am lucky enough to find some chives. I chop them up and then toss them in before switching out the hot rocks at the bottom and replacing them with fresh ones. Then put the lid on the pot and sit back to wait.

Once again with nothing to occupy my mind, I can't help that my thoughts drift to Peeta and my newly discovered feelings for him. How do I act around him now? Does this somehow change everything? Should I tell him?

A unanimous _no_, resounds in my head.

My mind drifts to my father, as it often does when I'm troubled. I was always my father's daughter. He was my idol and my hero. I worshiped him. He could do no wrong in my eyes, and his soft advice to me was always golden. What would he tell me? I need to know what to do.

I close my eyes, resting my forehead on my knees. What do I do? Love was never supposed to be in my cards. I've never been very fond of the concept, not after watching my mother sink into such a great depression after my father died. She died with him. Because of that, I've always seen love as a weakness, and my thoughts on the matter have probably been strengthened by my resentment of my mother. For withering away and ignoring Prim and me. Love, romantic love, made you weak.

But something tells me that my father would disagree with me.

Gale pops into my mind. What is Gale thinking? I know that he's been watching the Games. What does he think of my behavior? No doubt he thinks it's all a Capitol ruse, concocted by Haymitch to insure sponsors. Gale's that type of thinker. Tactical. Something tugs at my chest as I think of Gale. For some reason, I almost feel as though I'm betraying him and the closeness we share. I shake my head. Thoughts of home and Gale and the woods don't belong in the Hunger Games.

All that matters is surviving and keeping Peeta alive. Because no matter how confused about everything I am, I know that Peeta has to live. Because, like I told Rue, I can't imagine surviving these Games without him. A world without Peeta just doesn't seem right.

I lift my head from my knees and take the pot off the rocks, discarding the rocks inside. I make my way back to the cave, and find Peeta waiting for me. His eyes are immediately on me, and I see the relief in them. He perks up a bit, but I can tell that he's fading.

My throat threatens to close up, but I fight it.

"Do you want anything?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"No, thanks. Wait, yes. Tell me a story."

I look at Peeta blankly. "A story?"

"A happy one, preferably."

I can't believe this. Of all the things he could ask me, he wants me to tell him a happy story. "How old are you?" I tease. Storytelling is something that I don't do, kind of like singing, because they both remind me of my father. He could tell the best stories.

Peeta merely shrugs. "Humor me."

I roll my eyes as I drop to sit beside him. His hand finds mine, and I don't hesitate to twine my fingers in his. "How about the day I got Prim's goat?" I suggest.

"Sounds great."

And so I begin to tell Peeta the edited version of how I got Prim's goat. I'm sure that the audience has put two and two together and deduced that I hunt illegally. How else could I shoot a bow like I do? But I don't want to bring unnecessary harm to my customers, the Peacekeepers, Greasy Sae, the butcher . . . because by buying my kills they're breaking the law as well.

"It was the day before Prim's tenth birthday," I begin, and I see Peeta's eyes brighten. No doubt he's remembering the frosted cookie he left on our doorstep the next day. We share a conspiratorial smile before I continue. "And I wanted to get her something nice. So I went into town and sold an old silver locket of my mother's."

Peeta knows that 'sold an old silver locket' means that I went hunting.

And I did. Gale and I went out into the woods that evening, and though we got a good haul, it was really no better than we did normally. It was just getting dark and Gale and I were about to head back home when we saw him. A young buck, his antlers still small and fuzzy in his youth. He was beautiful.

He looked much less beautiful a second later when he had two arrows stuck in him, one in his chest and one in his neck. Gale and I shot at the same time. However, we waited until dark before dragging the hundred and fifty pound deer into town. The last time we'd gotten a dear, we had naively dragged it through the Hob. People were cutting out chunks of it, and by the time we'd sold it, we got half the price for it.

So this time around we waited for the cover of darkness before heading to Rooba, the district butcher. Rooba is someone you don't want to mess with. She gives you one price and that's it, take it or leave it. But Rooba will always give a fair price, and she did that night, giving Gale and I more money than we had ever had at one time, even throwing in a few steaks.

The next day Gale and I went into town, hunting for Prim's birthday present. Of course, she had already received the cookie from Peeta, which she had just been ecstatic about. This had only made me more determined to get her a present that would top a frosted cookie. Which was quite a goal, but I was determined.

I was examining some nice blue cloth, thinking I could buy some for Prim for a new dress, when I looked outside and saw the Goat Man. The Goat Man is an old miner. His fingers and hands are inflamed and twisted, something my mother calls arthritis, and he has a hacking cough that shows his many years in the mines. He's called the Goat Man because somewhere along the line he saved up enough money to buy a bunch of goats, which have kept him alive and given him something to do in his old age.

On the back of his wagon, a white goat with black patches was lying down, and I immediately saw why. Its shoulder had been mauled, probably by a dog, and it was badly infected. This fact, however, didn't stop me because I thought I knew someone who could fix it. I knew that goat had to be Prim's, and I told Gale so.

Together, we approached the Goat Man and began to haggle over Prim's future present. Owning a goat in District 12 could change your life. The Meadow is a perfect feeding place and they can live on practically anything. They give four quarts of milk a day and then you can sell it. Even make cheese and sell that too. That extra money would do wonders for my little family.

Gale and I bought a quart of milk to share and then stood over the goat, as if idly curious. "Let her be," the Goat Man said.

"We're just looking," Gale said.

"Well, look fast cause she's going to the butcher soon," he replied. "Hardly anyone will buy her milk and even then they only pay half price."

"What's the butcher giving you for her?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Hang around and see." I looked ahead and saw Rooba striding toward us. "Lucky thing you showed up," the Goat Man said when Rooba arrived. "Girl's got an eye on your goat."

"Not if she's spoken for," I said casually.

Rooba looked me up and down and then at the goat. "She's not. Look at that shoulder. I bet not even half of the carcass will be good for even sausage."

"What?" the Goat Man exclaimed. "That's not what we agreed!"

"We didn't agree to anything," Rooba said sternly before looking at me. "Give it to the girl," she said before marching off, but I caught her wink at me.

Then the Goat Man and I began to haggle over the price. "We drew such a crowd," I tell Peeta with a small smile. "Everyone was taking sides and offering opinions. Eventually we settled on the price. If Lady lived, I had made a great deal. If she died I had lost a lot of money."

"But she did live," Peeta points out and I nod.

"I was so giddy, I brought a pink ribbon to tie around her neck," I remember. "Gale carried her home. He didn't want to miss the look on her face." I laugh at the memory. "Prim was so excited she was laughing and crying at the same time."

"Mom was a little wary once she saw the wound on Lady's shoulder, but she and Prim went to work, forcing remedies down Lady's throat. That goat couldn't have died if she tried," I say. "Prim was so insistent on sleeping right beside her that first night. And I swear that Lady licked her cheek, like she was saying thank you."

"Was she still wearing the pink ribbon?" Peeta asks.

"Yeah," I confirm, a little confused. "Why?"

"Just trying to get the full picture," he explains. "I can see why that day made you happy."

"Well, I knew that goat could be a little gold mine," I say nonchalantly.

"Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping," Peeta says wryly.

"That goat has paid for itself," I tell him in a superior tone. "Several times over."

"Well, it wouldn't dare do anything else after you saved its life," says Peeta. "I intend to do the same thing."

His words confuse me. "Really? And what did you cost me?"

"A lot of trouble," he answers. "Don't worry. You'll get it all back."

I frown. What does that mean? "You're not making any sense," I say, reaching up to feel his forehead and I find that it's hot. His fever is going nowhere but up. To hide my worry, I simply pretend that all I'm doing is swiping his hair out of his eyes.

I think Peeta sees through me though.

Before he can say anything, the trumpets ring out, interrupting him and startling me. I'm on my feet and out of the cave in the next second, not wanting to miss a word from my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith. I listen carefully as he announces a feast, and then I wave his offer away indifferently.

A feast is held at the Cornucopia, usually toward the end of the Games when food is scarce. It's just another way to draw the remaining tributes together and hope for blood. I don't need to risk my life for such a thing. Peeta and I are doing good on food anyway, and I'm sure one of the dozen snares I set along the stream will catch something.

I'm just about to turn to walk back into the cave, when Templesmith's voice stops me. "Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately."

I freeze. Peeta's medicine.

"Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance."

It takes a few seconds for my limbs to defreeze. When I regain control of my limbs, I walk back into the cave, and Peeta is already glaring at me. "You're not risking your life for me."

I raise my eyebrows. "Who said I was?"

"So, you're not going?" he asks.

"Of course, I'm not going," I lie. I'm going. Peeta can't stop me. "Give me some credit," I continue. "Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don't be stupid." I sit down beside him. "I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there." There. That sounds plausible, right?

"You're such a bad liar, Katniss," Peeta tells me, and I imagine if he weren't so tired, he might actually have the strength to look angry. "I don't know how you've survived this long." He begins to mimic me. _"I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. Of course, I'm not going."_ Peeta looks at me knowingly. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin."

I know the game is up. Anger at the fact that he won't let me save him causes my face to flush. "All right! I am going, and you can't stop me!"

"I can follow you," he retorts stubbornly. "At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia—"

"—you won't make it a hundred yards—"

"—but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," he finishes defiantly, and I can't believe he's doing this.

"So you're just going to make me sit here and watch you die?" I ask furiously. "You're going to make me stay when I know that I can save you?"

"If you go, I go," Peeta says firmly. "I don't care if I have to drag myself, I'm going."

I glare at him. Peeta is just strong and stubborn enough to pull it off. And if he's howling after me in the woods, someone will find him. Or maybe _something_. He'd be dead for sure.

"I'm not letting you die, Peeta!" I know that I should probably lower my voice. Who knows who can hear me? But I can't help myself.

"I won't die," Peeta argues, but I'm shaking my head. I hate that tears are pooling in my eyes.

"Yes you will," I whisper, my voice breaking.

Peeta's face softens when he sees my tears, and when he pulls me to him, I don't fight him. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and he runs a hand soothingly down my back as I cling to him. I hate that I'm acting so weepy. But I can't control it. I love him, and I'm discovering that love is a very powerful emotion that has the ability to build you up and tear you down. Right now, it's tearing me down. It doesn't help that the whole idea of being in love is so recent and foreign to me. I haven't yet learned how to process these feelings very well and right now they're getting the better of me.

And Peeta is _not_ helping the situation.

"I won't die," Peeta repeats, placing a kiss on my temple. "I promise. I won't leave you, couldn't even if I tried."

My tears have dried up, and for a moment I simply relish the feel of his arms around me. Even when he's nearing the brink of death, he still manages to comfort me and delude me into thinking that everything will be alright. But this time, it's not going to work. I know that everything won't be alright. Not if I don't go to the feast and get his medicine.

"Fine," I say quietly. "I won't go."

Peeta gently pulls me away from him, probably so that he can tell if I'm lying. I summon up my best scowl to cover my lie. "But you're going to do what I say when I say it! And you're going to drink water, wake me when I tell you, and eat this soup no matter how disgusting it is!" I snap.

"Agreed."

Peeta eats the soup, going on and on about how delicious it is, and it might be encouraging if I didn't know what fever could make someone say. Honestly, Peeta sounds a lot like Haymitch when he's on a drunken spiel. Well, not quite, but close.

As night settles, I make sure that Peeta is tucked into the sleeping bag before telling him that I'm going to wash up at the stream. He looks at me warily, as if wondering if I'm going to bolt, but eventually he just nods tiredly. As I get up to leave, he suddenly grabs my hand, pulling me back to him. I'm confused by what he wants, but when I feel his lips touch mine, it no longer matters. I kiss him back, surprised by how natural all of this is. Maybe it's just because it's Peeta.

It's our longest kiss yet, and when we break away I'm gasping for air, and feel flushed. Peeta cradles my face in his hands, and looks at me a long moment, as if he's trying to memorize my face. "I love you."

I reach up and caress his cheek. "I know," I say softly before leaning forward and kissing him gently. "I'll be back."

Once I'm out of the cave my face drops. I look up at the sky. "Come on, Haymitch," I whisper. I don't know what exactly I'm asking for, but when I see a parachute drop from the sky I jump up and snatch it out of the air in my haste. When I open it, I'm momentarily excited. It's a small vial. Peeta's medicine? I think that it must be pretty powerful stuff, but doubt begins to form. If this is the medicine Peeta needs, why would Haymitch have just sent it now? Why not earlier?

I open the vial and place a tiny drop on my fingertip before putting it to my lips. The taste is almost sickly sweet and I immediately know what it is. Sleeping syrup. It's common enough in District 12, the cheapest of the medicines available. My mom uses it to calm hysterical patients, or to put people to sleep in order to sew up a deep wound.

Why has Haymitch sent me this? What good is sleep syrup? I glance at the vial again. There's enough to knock someone out for a whole day . . .

"Thank you, Haymitch," I whisper.

Quickly, I move toward the berry bushes and strip them of their fruit. I mash them up in the pot, and then add the sleep syrup, hoping that the taste of the berries will dilute the sweetness enough. I go back to the cave, inwardly cringing and yet determined at what I'm about to do. Peeta will see it as a betrayal, but there's simply no other way. I refuse to watch him die.

Peeta's eyes are immediately on me when I enter the cave. "What's in the pot this time?"

"More berries," I say lightly. "And you're going to eat it all."

"That's the deal."

I'm able to get two spoonfuls into him before he looks at me. "What are these?" he asks. "They're sweet."

"They're sugar berries," I explain. "My mom uses them to make jam. Haven't you had them before?"

"No," he says slowly. "But they taste familiar."

"Well, you can't get them in the market much," I shrug. "They only grow wild."

I give him another spoonful. Just one more to go.

"They're as sweet as syrup," he says before taking the last spoonful. Suddenly, he freezes and his eyes widen as he realizes what I've done. I clamp my hands over his mouth and nose, making him swallow. He tries to vomit them back up, but he's already losing consciousness. Regret threatens to overcome me when I see the betrayal in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I apologize softly. "But you can't die."

It doesn't matter that he can't hear me. The rest of Panem can.

* * *

**Isn't that a great act of love? Drugging Peeta. Yeah, he feels the love, Katniss. Definitely.**

**Well, there we are! You guys know what happens next! The Feast! Woo!**

**Okay, let's see. What quote from My Last Breath shall I divulge today? Hmm . . . let's go with . . . Finnick!**

**"Spare the rest of us from what went on in that sleeping bag."**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	20. Chapter 20

**************************************A/N: Okay, okay. I've got to say something. Really, it's overwhelming me . . . so . . .**

**************************************OMG! YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST READERS EVER AND I AM IN AWE OF YOUR AWESOMENESS!**

**************************************There, I said it. I feel better now.**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won! . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 20

Once I settle Peeta securely in the sleeping bag, I begin to make preparations. I exit the cave and spend the next few hours trying to camouflage it. Since my previous idea of using vines was an epic fail, I decide to simply use rocks. I pile them up strategically at the mouth of the cave, making it look like the many clumps of rock that line the bank. I leave just enough space for me to crawl though, making sure that it's not a noticeable gap, and I survey my work before nodding in satisfaction.

There are still a few hours of the night left for me to sleep, and I intend to make the most of them. I climb back into the cave and immediately slide into the sleeping bag with Peeta. My regret for drugging him swells within me as I take my usual place beside him. My head on his shoulder, an arm thrown over his waist. Except this time, his arms don't come up to surround me, and I'm surprised by how vulnerable I feel. I remember my father telling me once that it was the little things in life that truly mattered. It was the little things you needed to be grateful for, things that you took for granted. Lying here next to Peeta, without the safety of his embrace, causes my father's words to hit home.

I manage to sleep for a few hours before waking up about three hours before dawn, my body and mind forcing me awake. An overwhelming sense of purpose and determination causes me to be alert and focused within seconds of opening my eyes, and I immediately set to work, crawling out of the sleeping bag and beginning to pack.

I'm taking Rue's pack with me since it's the smallest. I fill it with some food, a water bottle, and some bandages, plus the night vision glasses. I quickly eat as I prepare, popping handfuls of berries into my mouth and eating a rabbit leg. I leave two full bottles of water for Peeta and set aside the first aid kit. It won't be of much use to him, but it sets my mind at ease, thinking that I've done a little something.

I've only been up for fifteen minutes, and I'm already shivering. The air is biting cold, and I can't feel my nose. After a moment of debate, I strip Peeta of his jacket before tucking him back into the sleeping bag. I feel guilty, but I can't deny that at this moment, I need it more than he does. On a whim, I also take Rue's extra pair of socks and poke holes in them, making makeshift gloves.

I grip my bow tightly in my hand, and I feel the weight of every one of my eight arrows in my quiver. However, before I leave, I know I've got to give the Capitol the show they're wanting. No doubt that they're falling over themselves due to Peeta and I. They want a love tragedy, and so far they're getting one, but I intend to change that. Nonetheless, I have to keep the sponsor's money coming, so I give Peeta a lingering kiss.

I feel slightly guilty that the kiss isn't true, that it's staged for the Capitol, but I shrug it off. I can't afford to think of things like that right now. I put on my night vision glasses and ease out of the cave. My breath makes little white puffs in front of me, the air is so cold. It's like a wintry night in December back home.

My plan for reaching the Cornucopia starts by retracing my steps back to the place where Rue and I became allies. From there I'll follow her instructions back down to the copse in the woods at the edge of the clearing in front of the Cornucopia. I plan to hide there until dawn and the feast begins.

It doesn't take me long to reach the first checkpoint in my destination, and I don't linger, too many memories of Rue. From there, I follow the path she taught me. The glasses make everything clear to me, but the world at night still looks odd. It makes everything look ominous, and the feeling really doesn't sit well with the nerves that are beginning to twist in my stomach.

I reach the outskirts of the Cornucopia with probably an hour to spare. Within minutes of settling down in the copse, I'm grateful for taking Peeta's jacket. Most importantly, its warmth is allowing me to stay still and not have to move around every few minutes to get warm. Another more trivial fact that I still find greatly important is that his jacket smells like him, and I take comfort in the familiarity.

While I wait for dawn, my mind wonders to District 12. I have no doubt that everyone is watching and cheering for us. It's rare when we have a tribute, let alone two, make it this far into the games. I can almost see them, gathering in the square to watch the Games, cheering for Peeta to hang on and for me to succeed in getting him the medicine he needs.

I wonder how my mother and Prim are doing. Are they eating enough? Is Mr. Mellark keeping his promise and making sure that Prim's belly is full? I wonder if mom and Prim sit at home and watch the Games on our tattered, old television, or if they've been watching in the square on the big screens.

My thoughts drift to Gale. How is he doing? He's watching the Games I know, silently and critically, but hoping like all the others that I come home. I wonder what he thinks of Peeta, if he wants him to come home, too. I wonder what he thinks of our kisses. I wonder if he thinks they're real. The thought occurs to me that Gale could have been my boyfriend, maybe, if I'd wanted things that way. He did mention running away together. Was that just a last-ditch plan for survival? Or something more? An odd weight sits on my chest at the thought.

I shake my head. Peeta. Peeta is all that matters. Get the medicine. Save Peeta. That is my number one goal in life at this moment. Because no matter how convoluted and chaotic everything else is, the fact remains that Peeta is the one thing in life that makes sense to me, however confusing it sometimes is.

I'm very aware that that thought really doesn't make any sense whatsoever.

When the silvery light of dawn begins to break and I still see no clue that there's a feast anywhere in the vicinity, I begin to panic. Am in the right place? Yes. Yes, I am. I'm positive that Claudius said the Cornucopia. Positive.

But however positive I am, a wave of relief still rushes through me when the ground in front of the Cornucopia opens up and a table begins to rise from the depths. It's like a long dinner table; covered in a pristine, white cloth. Spaced equally across the table are four packs. The first two packs on the far end are large and have the numbers 2 and 11 on them. The third pack is medium-sized and green with a number 5 on it. The last pack, hardly big enough to even be considered a pack, more like a padded pouch, has the number 12 on it.

_That's mine_, I think.

I'm just about to rush forward when I see someone dart out of the Cornucopia the moment the table locks into place. Foxface. Only someone like Foxface, daring and sly, would have taken such a brilliant risk. Admiration, frustration, and anger flood me. I should have thought of that!

It's a perfect plan really. She gets to her pack first, and by not taking anyone else's pack, she's basically ensured that no one will follow her. They will want their own pack before risking gunning her down. And here I have lost precious time lamenting over the perfect execution of her scheme.

I dart out of my hiding place, knowing that I have to get to the table next.

It's only because I hear a whizzing on my right side that I know enough to duck as Clove's knife slices through the air, missing my head by inches. I spin around and fire an arrow at her. Clove is just quick enough to turn to the side and avoid a fatal hit, but my arrow still lodges in her arm. This gives me precious seconds to reach my pack as she pulls the arrow out of her arm. Regrettably, the arrow lodged in her left arm. She throws right.

However, I only give this thought a minimal amount of weight, even though I string another arrow automatically as only a seasoned hunter can do. My only thought, the only thing that matters, is getting my pack.

I'm at the table now. I sling the small pack over my shoulder and just as I'm turning to make a run for it, I hear another knife whizzing toward me. I'm not fast enough this time, and the knife clips me in the forehead, sending a rush of blood down my face, blinding my eye. I release my arrow in the general direction of the attack, but I know the moment it leaves my bow that it misses.

This fact is compounded when I'm knocked to the ground.

I struggle, but Clove plants her knees on my chest, pinning me to the ground and restricting my breaths to nothing more than wheezes. I'm filled with failure as I stare up into Clove's glinting eyes. I'm going to die. I know it. I can only hope that Prim doesn't watch, because staring into Clove's eyes, I know that my death at her hands will not be quick. No, she'll want to savor it.

"Where's your boyfriend, District 12? Still hanging on?" she mocks, a small, evil smile on her face.

Well, if she wants to talk, I might as well contribute to the conversation. It only means I'll be alive that much longer. "He's out there right now. Hunting Cato," I lie with a snarl. Then, with almost all the air I have left in my lungs, I scream. "Peeta!"

Clove's forearm jams into my throat, abruptly cutting off my scream and severely limiting the amount of oxygen I'm able to pull into my lungs. However, I see that my lie has given her pause, her head whipping back and forth to see if Peeta's going to charge out of the woods to save me. I use her momentary distraction to my advantage, and abruptly try to shove her off me. It works, and I've just managed to scramble to my feet when I'm tackled to the ground again. I spin in her hold, my fist coming around to connect solidly with her jaw, but it only seems to daze her and make my hand throb.

"You're feisty, I'll give you that," she tells me before smiling, which is even more menacing because of the blood in her mouth from my punch. "But you're a little liar. Lover Boy is nearly dead, isn't he? Cato knows where he cut him. You've probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What's in the pretty little backpack? That medicine for him? Too bad he'll never get it."

Fury and despair are roiling through me in equal waves. Fury at Clove for drawing out my death. Why can't she just get it over with? I've always hated the ones who draw out the death of another tribute. They disgust me. They think it's fun. They enjoy it. But despair is weighing me down, too. Failure. My failure, which ensures that Peeta will die. It will be all my fault. And then the thought that I'll never have the chance to tell Peeta that I love him, however new and frightening the concept is, causes my heart to ache.

Clove opens up her jacket, and I see that it's lined with an array of knives. She chooses a particularly dainty looking one, before gently running the blade down my cheek. "I promised Cato if he let me have you, I'd give the audience a good show."

Instinct to survive prompts me to try to flee. I'm struggling for all that I'm worth, but Clove is simply too big, too strong for me to throw her off, and I doubt I can distract her again to try another sneak attack.

"Forget it, District 12. We're going to kill you. Just like we did your pathetic little ally . . . what was her name? The one who hopped around in the trees? Rue? Well, first Rue, then you, and then I think we'll just let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound?" Clove asks with a menacing smile. "Now, where to start?"

She carefully observes my face, turning it from side to side as if to see just the right angle. "I think . . . " she begins. "I think we'll start with your mouth."

I clamp my teeth together and glare into her eyes as she teasingly traces the outline of my lips with the tip of the blade. I refuse to show weakness. My gaze will never falter from hers. A scream will never escape my lips. No. I will show a silent strength in the end. For Rue. For myself. My last show of defiance.

"Yes, I don't think you'll have much use for your lips anymore. Want to blow Lover Boy one last kiss?" she asks.

In answer, I work up a mouthful of blood and spit in her face.

Rage dominates Clove's features, and I know my end is near. "All right then. Let's get started."

I set my jaw grimly, and just as I feel the first cut at the corner of my lips, Clove is abruptly pulled off me. I'm stunned, too shocked for my senses to really do their job and tell me what's going on. My mind is racing. Has Peeta managed to save me? Has a hovercraft yanked her up?

I blink rapidly and see that I was wrong on both counts. Thresh—huge, hulking, menacing Thresh—has Clove in a tight hold. His arms, looking the size of small tree trunks, pin her to him and hold her firmly to his chest, her feet dangling a foot off the ground. From my sharp angle on the ground, he looks even bigger than I know him to be. He towers over me, displaying his enormous strength, his power. He throws Clove to the ground and when he speaks, his voice is not subdued like in his interview.

It shocks me when he shouts. "What'd you do to that little girl? You kill her?"

Clove has lost all her confidence. Scrambling away from Thresh, she looks like nothing more than a scared little girl. She's too terrified to even call for Cato. "No! No, it wasn't me!" she denies, shaking her head so adamantly, I'm surprised it stays connected to her neck.

"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?" Thresh's face flushes with rage. "You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?"

"No! No, I—" Clove pauses when she sees the stone that is clutched in Thresh's hand, the size of a loaf of bread. This is enough for her to scream, "Cato! Cato!"

"Clove!" I hear Cato in the woods, but I know that he's too far away. He won't get to her in time. Clove must realize this too, because she begins to scramble to her feet. I hear a sickening crunch as she's knocked back to the ground, Thresh having brutally hit her in the head with the stone. She crumples to the ground in a heap. There's no blood. Only a dent in her head.

There's no recovering from that wound.

Thresh suddenly turns to me, and I'm frozen. I'm just as good as dead like Clove. No arrow is strung in my bow, and I won't be quick enough to string another arrow before Thresh bashes my head in. All I can do is stare into his golden brown eyes.

"What'd she mean? About Rue being your ally?"

"W-we teamed up," I explain, my voice shaky. "Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I really did. But I . . . I just didn't get there in time. He got there first, District 1."

"You kill him?" Thresh asks harshly.

"I killed him," I confirmed. "And buried her in flowers." My mind can't help but replay the memory, as I admit, "And I sang her to sleep."

I can't help the tears that spring into my eyes. Rue, sweet little Rue did not deserve to die, and a part of me will always blame myself for her death. Because I didn't get there in time to save her.

"To sleep?" he questions gruffly.

"To death," I specify. "I sang to her until she died . . ." I reach up a hand, not to go for an arrow, but to wipe my nose. "Your district, they sent me bread." I sigh in resignation. "Just do it quick, okay, Thresh?"

I wait for the blow, but it doesn't come. Conflict is plain on Thresh's face. Eventually, after a few seconds of internal debate, he lowers the stone, though he points it at me. "Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and me, we're even then. No more owed. You understand?"

Yes. I understand. Thresh and I are alike in this way. We both hate owing people.

My head jerks up as Cato's voice echoes through the air, calling for Clove.

"You better go Fire Girl," Thresh says and I don't hesitate to leap to my feet and take off running.

When I reach the edge of the woods, I can't help but turn back to glance at the Cornucopia. I see Thresh snatch up both his pack and Cato's before disappearing over the edge of the plain into a part of the arena that I've never seen.

But when I see Cato crash out of the woods and make a beeline toward Clove, my legs start working again and carry me swiftly over the forest floor. The thought that Cato might come after me is at the forefront of my mind. And the fact that I have my bow doesn't give me much comfort. He can throw a spear nearly as far as I can shoot an arrow. And even though the thought occurs to me that Cato probably went after Thresh since he's the one who had what Cato desperately needed, it's not enough to cause me to slow.

I still run.

When I reach the stream, I trudge right through it, boots and socks and all. I'm surprised I haven't tripped from being unable to see where I'm going. Blood is still rushing from my head wound, and it's covering the right side of my face, blinding me. I take off my makeshift gloves and press them to the wound. They're quickly soaked through.

Somehow I'm able to navigate my way to the cave. I crawl through the opening, gasping for breath, but I don't dare slow. I fall to my knees beside Peeta and rip open the pack. A small, narrow box drops out and I rip that open too, revealing a single, hypodermic needle. Immediately, I grab it and then stab it into Peeta's arm, pushing the plunger down.

I sink down to the floor of the cave beside him, breathing heavily. My head is throbbing, and there's a dull ache in my hand. The sharp, metallic taste of blood coats my lips. Spots dance in front of my eyes.

A tired sense of victory fills me. I succeeded. I saved Peeta.

That's my last thought before the darkness takes me.

* * *

**Go Katniss! You saved him. Good for you. Just know that when he wakes up, he's not going to be too happy with you. Thrilled that you're still alive, but pissed that you drugged him and then risked your life. Don't worry. You'll argue about it.**

**Hmm . . . let's see . . . what quote from My Last Breath shall I divulge? Let's go with Haymitch! A particularly sweet moment from him . . . **

**Haymitch: "Hard to be lonely when you've got kids."**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	21. Chapter 21

**************************************A/N: Oh, goodness! Over 800 reviews? Seriously? Dudes, that's epic, and I thank you for be awesome.**

**************************************Okay, I have a feeling a lot of you will be squealing this chapter. One, we've got an awesome argument. Two, we've got a cute little fliry scene. And finally, we have what I like to call a 'saucy scene.' And if you think it's hot . . . let me just say that the 'saucy scenes' in CF are even hotter. (fans herself)**

**************************************Sooo . . . let's get to it! Onwards!**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won!; Whenever I'm on the golf course and someone says 'Four!' I yell, "FIVE!" . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 21

The pitter-patter pattern of the rain threatens to lull my mind back into unconsciousness. The soft tapping of the raindrops against the rock is actually rather soothing. But slowly, the fog begins to clear from my mind, and the dull ache in my head grows exponentially until it's throbbing.

Already I have a headache, and my eyes haven't even opened yet.

"Katniss?"

My eyes are open in a flash. "Peeta?" I blink rapidly, trying to bring him into focus. I feel his hand on my face and let out a sigh of relief. "It worked." I examine his face. His skin is back to its original color; even his hair seems to have a little shine. His blue eyes are brighter than ever.

And a very disappointed frown is on his face.

"What?" I ask defensively. "I did the right thing."

"You drugged me."

"You were being difficult."

I try to sit up, but the moment I lift my head, the world begins to spin, and my headache intensifies. I place a hand on my head, wincing, and I feel a soft cloth under my fingertips. Peeta must have bandaged it. I would be feeling much more grateful if he weren't trying to convince me that saving his life was a bad idea.

"You could have died," Peeta says angrily.

"You _would_ have died!" I snap. "You would have died and then left me here! You know that if the situation was reversed, you would have done the exact same thing!"

Peeta's eyes harden. "That doesn't matter! I doesn't matter what I would have done. You can't die for me, alright? You won't be doing me any favors."

"What makes you think I did it for you?" My anger gives me the strength to sit up and fight the wave of dizziness that the movement causes. "Did the idea ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to save you for my own selfish reasons? That I would rather save you, knowing that you could die later anyway, just so I would have that much longer with you? No. Of course you didn't think of that, because of course, you, Peeta Mellark, are the only one of the two of us willing to die for the other!"

I think that my outburst is the longest and most coherent I've ever shouted.

My chest is heaving with emotion; my headache is now a roar in my mind, tears are threatening to fall from my eyes, and all Peeta can do is stare at me blankly. Maybe I didn't make as much sense as I thought I did.

I open my mouth to say something, but I'm suddenly in Peeta's arms and he's holding me closely to him, murmuring soft words and apologies. A little part of me holds onto my ire at his audacity, but the rest of me is simply overjoyed that he has the strength to hold me to him. We stay like this for a long time, with Peeta occasionally pressing a kiss to my hair or my temple.

After a while, my curiosity causes me to break the silence. "How is your leg?"

"A lot better," Peeta answers. "Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick. By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone."

I frown, slightly. "How long have I been out?"

"I'm not sure exactly." Peeta holds me tighter. "I woke up yesterday to find you lying next to me in a rather scary pool of blood."

"A sight to wake up to," I say dryly, and Peeta doesn't answer immediately.

"You looked dead," he says softly. "For a moment, I thought you were."

"Not a nice feeling, is it?"

Peeta's hand comes up to caress my cheek. "One I could go without feeling."

"Then let's just not die," I say lightly. "Just save ourselves the sorrow."

"Sounds like something I can agree to."

My eyes drift to the mouth of the cave and I see the rain coming down lightly. It's only then that I notice the piece of plastic wedged into the rocks above me, creating a little canopy to keep the rain from dripping down on me due to the cracked ceiling. Peeta must have built it.

"Have you eaten anything?" I ask. "You need to eat something."

Peeta looks sheepish. "I'm sorry to say that I woke up and gobbled down half the rabbit and a piece of groosling before I realized that we might have to make it last. Don't worry, though. I'm back on my strict diet."

I shake my head. "It's alright. I'll go hunting soon."

Peeta looks at me warily. "Not too soon, though, alright? Just let me take care of you for a while."

"Fair enough," I say with a small smile. "You owe me anyway."

Peeta laughs a little, thinking of the silent game of payback we've played for the past few years. "Where do I start then?" he asks. "Food?"

"Always a good place to start."

Though there's a part of me that will always balk at being taken care of, the rest of me is relishing the feeling. Because, for once, I get to sit back and let someone else shoulder the burden. It's always been me taking care of others, my mother and Prim, protecting them. After years of shouldering this weight that at times I resented so much it took me an entire day alone in the woods by the lake shake the feeling, it is an incredible feeling to sit back and let someone else take over. The thought flies through my mind that if this were Gale and not Peeta, I would be putting up much more of a fight. There's just something about Peeta that I trust, something that I don't have with Gale.

It might all go back to my illuminating discovery that I'm fairly certain I'm in love with Peeta.

Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and some raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. Once he thinks that I've eaten enough, he moves to my feet, intending to warm them up. Because of the rain, my boots and socks are still wet. I don't even realize how cold my feet are until I feel his warm hand. I jerk my foot away, and Peeta looks at me confused. "What?"

"I have a thing about feet," I say seriously.

This doesn't seem to deter Peeta. In fact, it only makes him amused. "Why?"

"Because . . . because they're just nasty, okay?" I fumble for an explanation that sounds reasonable. "I mean, they get so dirty and they stink, and one time a patient came in to see my mom and he really had something weird going on with his toes, and . . ." Peeta grabs my foot and an embarrassing squeal escapes my lips. "And it tickles!"

Peeta laughs. "You're ticklish?" He reaches for my feet again, and I jerk them away from him.

"Aren't you?" I ask defensively.

Peeta shakes his head. "I have two older brothers. I was all tickled out by the time I was eight."

"You know you use Chris and Rye as an excuse for a lot of different things," I tell him, my eyebrows raised.

"Having those two for brothers really shapes your life," Peeta says with a fond smile.

A question I've always wanted to ask escapes me. "Why did you let Rye win the wrestling tournament?"

Peeta chuckles. "You know he's cursing you at home right now. He's lost all the glory."

"I think I can take him," I say with a grin.

Peeta rolls his eyes, but begins to explain. "At the time, he was trying to impress a girl. Safe to say that if he lost to his little brother, he would not feel very impressive."

I laugh. It was so something that Peeta would do, letting his brother get the win just so said older brother could impress a girl. "Was the girl impressed?" I ask.

Peeta laughs, louder and freer than I've heard in a while. "No. She was worried about me and if I was okay."

A giggle escapes me, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle the preceding giggles. Only Peeta Mellark could make me giggle, such an abhorrently girly act. "Poor Rye."

Peeta merely nods, a rogue chuckle escaping him. We continue to talk as he warms up my feet by putting them in his jacket, and then tucking me into the sleeping bag. He sits beside me, but after a while, I can't stand it anymore. I reach down in the sleeping bag and unwrap his jacket from my feet. I toss it into his lap, and he frowns. "You—"

"It's freezing," I cut off his argument before he can get on a roll. "You need a jacket."

"You need to stay warm."

"So climb in here with me, if you're so worried," I say, raising my eyebrows. "With you in here we'll be sweating in no time."

For once, I realize the double entendre in my words before Peeta, and my face flushes the brightest it ever has. Peeta catches on a second after I do, and much to my embarrassment and aggravation, he waggles his eyebrows. "Well scoot over and I'll see what I can do," he says with a grin before making a big show of crawling into the sleeping bag with me.

Despite my lingering embarrassment, I don't hesitate to lay my head on his shoulder, and when his arms come up to surround me I can't help but close my eyes and relish the feeling. When he was drugged, he'd felt so far away, and now it's like I've never felt closer to him.

Entranced by this feeling, I tilt my head up to allow my lips to brush the skin of his neck. Peeta makes a sound of surprise, but I ignore it, continuing to kiss my way up his neck before Peeta finally regains his senses enough to meet me halfway, his lips crashing down on mine. This is the first real kiss where he's not loony with fever or dead tired, and it shows. Fire ignites in my stomach as our lips move together, and when I feel his tongue trace my bottom lip, a moan escapes me, much to my horror and excitement. It only seems to spur Peeta on, and I'm suddenly very aware of his hands that are dangerously low on my hips. A sound between a shriek and a squeal escapes me when Peeta's hands tighten on my hips before suddenly lifting me on top of him.

He really is feeling better.

Peeta's tongue traces my bottom lip again, and this time I open my mouth and let him in. The feeling of our tongues dancing together is incredibly new and a little odd, but terribly exciting. When we finally break away, I feel as though my lungs are about to burst.

I meet Peeta's eyes and see that they're that dark shade of blue again, and now that I'm aware of my feelings for him, I recognize the look in his eye. Desire.

I feel an odd sense of girlish pride. _I_ have this effect on him. _Me_.

"Are you warm enough?" he asks, his voice a little lower than normal. I like it.

My response escapes me without a thought. "On fire."

The rest of the night passes quietly. There are no more excessive, fire-igniting kissing sessions, as we're both still worn out from the previous day's events. Peeta is still weak from his wound, and my head is still throbbing with the worst headache in history. My brief bout of oxygen deprivation probably didn't help, but I don't regret a single second of that kiss.

The rain continues to pour into the next day, and I know that I can't hunt. The rain is coming down in sheets. I wouldn't be able to see three feet in front of my face. Hours ago, Peeta and I ate the rest of the food we had, and it did little to thwart our hunger. I'm a little surprised that Haymitch hasn't sent us anything. Surely, he could? Or maybe not . . . anything sent into the arena now would cost an egregious amount. Or maybe we're not giving him enough. Maybe he wants more of the 'star-crossed lovers'? I'm miffed that my favorite kiss with Peeta to date wasn't worthy of being sent something.

I'm drawn from my thoughts when Peeta speaks, "I wonder what's with this storm," he says. "Who's the target?"

"Cato and Thresh," I answer immediately. "Foxface is hiding in her den somewhere, and Clove . . . she's . . ."

"Dead," Peeta finishes for me. "I know. I saw her in the sky the night before. Did you kill her?"

"No," I shake my head. "Thresh. He broke her skull with a rock."

"Lucky he didn't catch you too," Peeta says, and I slowly shake my head.

"No," I close my eyes, my mind reliving the onslaught of the feast. "He caught me . . . but he let me go."

"He let you go?" Peeta questions confused, and I know that I have to tell him everything that he's missed. From my alliance with Rue all the way up to the feast.

And so I do. I tell him all about finding Rue and letting her be my ally, though I keep my explanation of what love is to myself. I tell him about blowing up the Career's supplies. Tears enter my eyes when I tell him of Rue's death and how I sang to her. I give him every detail of the fight at the feast, my battle with Clove and how Thresh saved me, and then how he let me go before taking both his and Cato's packs and darting into the part of the arena that I've never seen.

"He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" Peeta questions and I nod.

"Well, you two have that in common," he says. "You both hate owing people."

"It's very annoying. It's like the bread. It took me forever to get over owing you for that," I explain.

Peeta looks at me incredulously. "From when we were kids?"

I nod. "You didn't even know me. We hadn't said a word to each other. I still don't know why you did it." I shake my head. "Other than the fact that 'it was the right thing to do'?" I make little air quotes in the air to prove my point and show my disbelief that that's all his motivation was.

"You know why," Peeta tells me softly.

It clicks. "You were in love with me when we were eleven?"

"It actually all started when we were five."

I stare at him, shocked. "You've loved me since you were five. There's got to be story for this."

"And you're wanting me to tell it, aren't you?" Peeta asks.

"I did tell you a story before. You owe me one."

Peeta grins. "Fine. It was the first day of school. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair . . . it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up."

"Your father?"

Peeta nods. "He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.'"

I'm shocked. "What? You're making that up!"

"No, true story," Peeta says with a smile. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings . . . even the birds stop to listen.'"

A sad smile pulls at my lips. "That's true. They did."

"So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent," Peeta remembers with a fond smile. "And I knew I was a goner. Then for the next eleven years I tried to work up enough courage to talk to you."

"With mild success."

"With mild success."

"We were great with one word conversations," I say with a smile. "Hi."

Peeta chuckles. "Hi."

"And then you would blush and walk away," I recall with a soft smile. "I always thought you were weird."

We both laugh before slipping into silence for a few moments. I break it when I say, "You have a remarkable memory."

"I remember everything about you," Peeta says quietly as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention."

"I am now."

"Well, I don't have much competition here," Peeta teases, but my response surprises him with its sincerity.

"You don't have much competition anywhere."

There's a light in Peeta's eyes, one that I haven't seen. Almost like hope. I lean forward, and just as I've pressed my lips to his, there's the clanking sound of a parachute hitting the ground outside the cave. Peeta gives a loud whoop of excitement, crawling out of the sleeping bag and running into the rain, despite my protests.

He quickly returns with the parachute, which as a large basket attached. We know what's in it before we open it. Food. Peeta quickly opens the basket and we both stare in awe at the food before us. Fresh rolls. Goat cheese. Apples. And best of all, a large tureen of my favorite lamb stew over fried rice with dried plums.

"I guess Haymitch got tired of seeing us starve," Peeta says, his face alight with excitement.

"I guess so," I say.

But in my head, I'm replaying the last few minutes of mine and Peeta's conversation. My confession to him, basically admitting my love and yet not at the same time. I can practically hear Haymitch's smug voice in my head, "Yes, _that's_ what I'm looking for, sweetheart."

* * *

**Woo! Katniss, look at you! You got to make out with Peeta. Lucky girl, you are.**

**Little update for Mockingjay: I've got the first three chapters in the bank. MJ's giving me trouble for multiple reasons. Mainly because Peeta isn't there, so both me and Katniss are depressed. And then there's such different circumstances that I have to deal with. But, alas, never fear. I shall write on and get Peeta back as soon as possible. I've had a lot of questions as to whether Peeta will be hijacked. I can sorta say 'yes and no.' He won't have the memory loss, but he _will_ have the moments of blind rage, though it will not be directly influenced by his experience with tracker jacker venom. My evil plan for him is actually quite heartbreaking (for both him and Katniss), even more so than in the books. Yeah, I know, I'm evil. Just prepare yourselves for a darker, more dramatic story.**

**And now on to my version of Catching Fire! Let's see . . . what quote from My Last Breath shall I share today? Hmm . . . let's go with . . . Rye Mellark! We'll be introduced to Peeta's family in my version. :)**

**So this is Rye's typical greeting to Katniss, "Hey there, sweetcheeks!"**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	22. Chapter 22

**************************************A/N: Wow, this is insane! So many reviews! I'm just about ready to fall over from exhaustion due to excessive happy dancing. You think I'm kidding, I swear I'm not. (falls over panting)**

**************************************(leaps to her feet)**

**************************************But I'm okay! Also, forgive me for not replying to your reviews. I read them all and enjoyed them thoroughly. (happy dancing nonstop, I tell you). I've been busy the past few days, getting everything lined up at college and stuff. Books are SICKENINGLY expensive. (cringes)**

**************************************Okay, okay, here we go to the chapter. ;)**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won!; Whenever I'm on the golf course and someone says 'Four!' I yell, "FIVE!"; I listen to the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean every time I finish a story . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 22

I brood silently as Peeta and I eat a small portion of the food that Haymitch sent. I'm mad at him, Haymitch, for using my feelings as leverage. My feelings for Peeta are just that. _Mine_. I really don't want everyone, like an entire nation, privy to them, and I don't want Haymitch's need for the Capitol's money. I don't like how the need for Capitol sponsors is influencing how I act around Peeta. A kiss equals a pot of broth. An almost-declaration of love gets a feast. I want my feelings for Peeta to be private. I want to move things along at my own pace, and I sure as hell don't want my feelings being used to get money out of sniveling, spoiled, far-too-happy Capitol citizens that think the world will come to an end if their hairdryer breaks.

What really makes my anger rise is the fact that I know it's useless. Because, truthfully, Peeta and I need our sponsors. They've helped keep us alive. I can't deny that. My and Peeta's relationship is what keeps them interested in us. Love spawned in a game of hate. Peeta and I have to keep their attention.

I focus my thoughts back on my food so my scowl won't show on my face. It's a meager portion of the feast that Haymitch sent since Peeta and I both agreed to take it slow. Both of us remember our first Capitol meal on the train and how we'd stuffed ourselves until we thought we would be sick. We can't afford to do that this time, especially since we're starving.

I savor each and every bite, trying to make it last, but my plate is clean way before I want it to be. I can't help but eye all the food in front of me, still hot and fresh and smelling so damn good. "I want more," I admit, making my statement sound like some confession of a sin.

"Me too," Peeta says before adding, "How about we wait an hour, and then if we keep it down, we'll get another serving."

"Deal," I agree immediately, though I frown. "It's going to be a long hour."

"Maybe not," Peeta says and I see a broad, happy grin on his face. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me . . . no competition . . . best thing that ever happened to you . . ."

I laugh. "I don't remember that last bit."

"Oh, right. That was what _I_ was thinking," Peeta says, causing a light blush to stain my cheeks. "Now scoot over, I'm freezing," he says abruptly, breaking the tension and slipping into the sleeping bag beside me.

Peeta leans back against the wall of the cave, and I can't help but move toward his warmth. His arms automatically pull me closer so that I'm tucked right into his side, and I rest my head on his shoulder. The ridiculous thought occurs to me that I wish Peeta would never let go of me and that I could stay in his arms forever. It's completely ludicrous, but I can't deny the thought is there.

Love. I'm quickly discovering that love is incredibly strange. Strange in its effect on me. Peeta's effect on me. When I see him, I want to smile. When his eyes sparkle at me, I want to blush. When he kisses me, everything fades away. It's strange, so strange for someone to have such an effect on me.

Love is also powerful. The depth, the intensity of my feelings for Peeta—this is what scares me. I know that the more you care for someone, the more pain you open yourself up to. My father's death crippled me. And I know that if I lose Peeta, I'll lose a part of me, a part of me that I'll never get back. That power, that control that love wields is terrifying.

How can I let myself have that weakness? I mean, look at my mother. My father died and she died with him, figuratively of course. His death ripped her apart to the point that she'll never be right again. His death destroyed her, sending her into a sadness so deep that she couldn't find the will to act to save her starving children.

I want love to make me strong, like I think it did my father. I want my love to be a strength, an advantage. Love is just so . . . so _consuming. _I can feel it, lighting every fiber of my being. If I concentrate hard enough, I bet I could trick myself into thinking that I'm tingly all over. I don't know if I can handle it. It's all so new. And to know that Peeta could be so easily taken away from me is not helping whatsoever. Why did I have to fall in love during the Hunger Games?

The mere possibility of losing Peeta, just the idea itself, causes my heart to clench. If the thought of losing him is painful, what would his actual death be like? How would I cope? I already have experience in thinking that he is dead and gone. But now, somehow, I think that if I thought he was dead, I would feel even worse. Because this time, I would know exactly how much he meant to me.

For some reason, I feel myself being thrown into a memory. A memory of my father. I can see it so clearly. I was young, probably around eight years old, and my father and I were walking into town. We were going to trade for something, I think. I must not have paid attention to that detail. I remember passing by the apothecary shop, and my father stopping and pointing it out to me. He'd said, "See that, Katniss? That was where I fell in love with your mother. Prettiest girl I've ever seen, but I was scared to talk to her."

Of course, this news had shocked me to my core. I'd thought that my father was fearless. "Why?" I'd asked.

"Because she was from town and I wasn't," he explains. "It was a big risk to fall in love with me," he continued before squatting down so that he was eye-level with me. Almost as if he'd known that I would need advice one day, he'd told me in his softest, and yet most ardent voice, "Love, Katniss, true love, is always worth the risk."

_Always worth the risk._

I'm certain that my father thought that love was worth the risk. I'm not questioning that. He was married to my mother for twelve years before he died, and I know that he didn't regret a single day. But what about my mother? Does she think that those twelve years of happiness outshine the sadness she now lives with? Does she think that love was worth the risk?

Do I?

I tell myself that I am my father's daughter. If life as proven anything to me, it is that I am _not_ my mother. I'm a survivor. I can endure. I'm strong, like my father.

This knowledge, this fact sets something at ease within me. It feels like acceptance. I am in love with Peeta Mellark.

Speaking of, I look up at him and find that he's looking down at me. "What has you thinking so hard?" he asks.

I shrug. "Nothing."

"It was something. You got that little crease in between your eyes and you were frowning," Peeta tells me. "That's your 'I'm-thinking-really-hard-about-something' face."

Not really wanting to share my recent thoughts and introspection, but not wanting to outright lie to him either, I tell him, "I'll tell you later." Though I can't help but add with a small, playful smirk, "Maybe."

To keep him from wondering what I was really thinking about, I ask him something I've been wanting to know anyway, mainly because the idea that he's been in love with me since he was five still astounds me. "You've loved me since you were five, right?" I ask, needing him to confirm it, just on the off-chance that I'd heard him wrong the first time.

He looks at me oddly, trying to keep up with my abrupt subject change, but I'm relieved when he answers my question and lets the previous topic of conversation go. "Right."

"And since then you've never even noticed any other girl?" This doesn't seems possible to me.

Peeta grins. "No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression except you."

I roll my eyes. He must rehearse lines like those in the mirror. It's hard for me to believe that he can say stuff like that off the top of his head. I might tease him about it later.

"I'm sure that would thrill you parents, you liking a Seam girl," I say.

"Hardly," Peeta agrees with me before continuing on in a slightly defiant voice. "But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village."

"This is true," I admit, and for the first time since the Games began, I actually let myself imagine winning. Peeta and I actually going home. We would each get our own house in the Victor's Village. It's a special part of town that each district has, reserved for winners of the Hunger Games. A long time ago, when the Games first started, the Captiol built a dozen victor's houses in each district. Of course, some district's Victor's Villages have been expanded, like in the Career Districts, since they've had more than twelve victors.

However, in District 12, only one of the twelve houses in the Village is occupied. "Here's a disturbing thought," I say frowning. "Haymitch will be our only neighbor."

"Ah, that'll be nice," Peeta says with a grin as he tightens his arms around me. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales," he chuckles.

"But he hates me!" I laugh, despite myself, at the image of me becoming best buds with Haymitch.

"Only sometimes," Peeta says lightly. "When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you."

I scoff. "He's never sober!"

"That's right, who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire." Peeta pauses to kiss my temple. "On the other hand, Haymitch . . . well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely," he says in faux seriousness. "He hates you."

"But you're still his favorite," Peeta adds lightly.

"What? I thought you said he hated me?"

"He hates me more." Peeta sighs. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing."

The audience is no doubt eating this up. Everyone knows Haymitch. He's been around the Games for so long, and is notorious for liking white liquor just a little too much. And if anyone didn't know who he was, they do now because of the nosedive he took off the stage at the reaping. I kind of feel bad for Haymitch though, since he's District 12's only living victor, he has to mentor all by himself. All the other districts have two mentors. Haymitch is all on his own. I wonder how he's doing, how he's keeping up with sponsors and his drinking and trying to keep us alive.

"You ever wonder how he won his Games?" I ask Peeta suddenly. I'm surprised I haven't questioned it before.

Peeta frowns, considering, and I begin to think of an answer as well. Haymitch has a sturdy build, but he's not near as strong and powerful as Cato or Thresh. He's not particularly handsome, not enough to have sponsors rain down on him. And his attitude is so surly and sarcastic . . .

"He outsmarted the others." Peeta comes to the same conclusion I do.

I nod, dropping the conversation. Instead, I focus on something much more important. "Okay. It's been at least half an hour. I've waited long enough. Let's eat."

Peeta is too hungry to argue. While I'm fixing us two more small servings of the food, the anthem begins to play and Peeta gets up to look out the mouth of the cave, checking the sky.

"There won't be anything to see tonight," I say as I focus on the food. "Nothing's happened or we would've heard a cannon."

"Katniss."

"What?" I ask absentmindedly. "Do you want to split another roll, too?"

"Katniss."

"I'm going to split one," I say, ignoring him and his tone. It's too soft. I don't want to hear what he has to say. "But I'll save the cheese for tomorrow."

I look up when Peeta's hands grasp my shoulders. "Thresh is dead," he tells me quietly.

I don't believe it. "He can't be."

"They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it," Peeta says.

"Are you sure?" I'm in denial. "I mean, it's pouring buckets out there. I don't know how you can see anything," I say before pushing his hands off me and going to check the sky for myself. I freeze when I see Thresh's picture, distorted by the dark and the rain, but there. And then it's gone.

I'm surprised by the pain I feel by Thresh's death. Perhaps it's because of Rue and how he let me go. I fight to control my features, no doubt the cameras are probably on us. I doubt Foxface is doing anything too interesting, and Cato is probably tuckered out from his fight with Thresh. Of course the cameras are going to focus on Peeta and I.

I should be grateful. Thresh's death means one less tribute to kill, and I should be glad that I won't be faced with the necessity of killing him myself. But I'm not. I wanted Thresh to live. I want us all to live. I don't want anyone else to die. So much death . . .

"You alright?" Peeta asks softly, laying a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"It's just . . ." I try to find words. "If we didn't win, I wanted Thresh to. For Rue."

"I know. But it also means that we're one step closer to home." Peeta wraps an arm around me and guides me back in the cave. "Eat." He hands my plate to me. "It's still warm."

"It also means that Cato will be back hunting us," I say as I begin to eat.

"And he's got supplies again."

"He'll be wounded, I bet."

Peeta's brow furrows. "What makes you say that?"

"Because Thresh wouldn't have gone down without a fight. He's was so strong. And they were in his territory," I explain and Peeta is nodding, agreeing with me.

"Good," he says. "The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out."

I can't help the scoff that escapes me. I still haven't forgiven myself for not thinking to hide in the Cornucopia like she had. "She's probably harder to catch than Cato."

After we finish eating, Peeta and I retreat into the warmth of the sleeping bag. I bury my face into his neck, wanting to be closer to him. In response, he holds me tighter and I soak up the safety that his protective arms provide. The fact that Cato was able to kill someone as powerful as Thresh terrifies me. I have no doubt that Peeta and I can take care of Foxface, if we ever catch her. But Cato? Cato will be a direct confrontation. Peeta and I will have to be ready for him, otherwise I'm no use. I wouldn't last five seconds in hand to hand with Cato. I need the advantage of distance; I need to see him coming.

I feel Peeta's hand running down my back, and it's soothing. My eyes close and I sigh. "Go to sleep," Peeta orders softly. "I'll keep watch."

"Wake me up in a few hours," I tell him, lifting my head off his shoulder to meet his eyes, emphasizing the importance. "Do not let me sleep because you just 'can't bear to wake me' or some nonsense like that."

Peeta grins slightly. "No nonsense," he promises. "Now go to sleep."

I hold his gaze for a second longer and Peeta takes advantage, giving me a lingering kiss that warms me in a fascinating new way that I'm quickly growing addicted to. "Couldn't resist," he says with such a boyish grin that I can't help but smile.

"You're hopeless," I mutter, ignoring the grin that is still on his face, before resting my head on his shoulder once more and drifting off to sleep.

* * *

**Aw. They're so cute.**

**Okay, okay, let me see, let me see . . . only four more chapters of this story left! I know, I know . . . so sad. BUT at least we know I've got My Last Breath edited and just waiting to be posted. Yeah, I'm on a roll. And MJ is going well. I wrote a very disturbing dream sequence and a heartbreaking Haymitch/Katniss moment. It's has me all excited and giggly.**

**Hmm . . . My Last Breath . . . which character should I choose? Hmm . . . Mrs. Everdeen, perhaps?**

**"You're more and more like your father every day. Always so sure."**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	23. Chapter 23

**************************************A/N: Guys, you really have to tone down your awesomeness. I'm over the moon with all of your reviews. Seriously, over 900? Really? You. Are. Amazing. I love every single one of you. :)**

**************************************Okay, this chapter definitely involves events that TOTALLY did NOT happen in the books. Honestly, of all the things that I've changed, this change makes me the most nervous. **

**************************************So . . . let's just get to it . . .**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won!; Whenever I'm on the golf course and someone says 'Four!' I yell, "FIVE!"; I listen to the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean every time I finish a story; I am a Sherlock Holmes fanatic . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 23

The rain stops abruptly, like someone simply turning off a faucet. One second it's pouring, the sound of the water hitting the earth loud and continuous, and then in the next second it's eerily silent for a few moments until the birds begin to sing, and the sun begins to rise. In the mist and left over humidity of the rain, the sky looks even brighter, reflecting off the moisture in the air. If I knew that Peeta didn't absolutely need all the sleep he can get, I would wake him so he could see it.

I let Peeta sleep for a few minutes longer while I prepare the rest of the food, halving it out on two separate plates. Now that the rain has abated, we need to hunt. These Games are down to the final four. They'll probably be over in mere days. The Gamemakers will no doubt drive us together somehow if nothing happens today. Everyone must be anxious for the finale.

I rouse Peeta, gently shaking his shoulder. He blinks a few times, clearing the fog of sleep away. Once he does and his gaze lands on me, he surprises me by pulling me in for a long kiss, one that actually makes my toes curl.

I'd always thought the girls at school were making that up.

When we break away, I have to think for a minute. My thoughts are oddly scattered. "We're wasting hunting time," I eventually say.

Peeta smiles mischievously, like he knows the effect he has on me. "Well, I wouldn't call it wasting . . ." he trails off before stealing another kiss, which (regrettably) only lasts a few seconds because I back away and shove his shoulder. Damn me being responsible.

"Come on," I say. "We've got to eat." I hand him his plate, piled high with rice and stew.

Peeta eyes all the food. "All of this?"

"We need staying power," I shrug. "Trust me. We'll earn it all back at the end of the day."

We spend the next minutes devouring our plates. Eventually, I chuck my fork and begin wiping up the gravy with my finger. I can't help but think of Effie and all her comments about manners and etiquette. "I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering," I laugh as I continue to mop up the gravy with my finger.

A chuckle escapes Peeta and a playful light enters his eye. He tosses his fork away and says, "Hey Effie! Watch this!" I'm staring in shock and amusement as Peeta begins to lick his plate clean, making exaggeratedly loud, satisfied sounds. By the time he finishes I'm almost balled over in a fit of laughter.

"We miss you Effie!" Peeta calls out, blowing our District escort a kiss.

I clamp my hand over his mouth, a laugh escaping me. "Quiet! Cato could be right outside the cave!"

Peeta's hand wraps around my wrist, pulling my hand from his mouth. "So? I've got you to protect me," he says has he pulls me into his side, sneaking in another kiss before I extricate myself from his hold.

"Can you manage five minutes without kissing me?" I complain, though my lips betray me when they stretch into a smile.

"Absolutely not," Peeta grins cheekily before pulling me in for another kiss.

I try to resist. Really, I do . . . for all of about two seconds . . . and then I'm kissing him back just as fervently. My blood is zinging with an exhilarating kind of heat, and the feeling is still so new and consuming that I don't want it to end. It makes me forget about the Games, forget that we both might die. All that exists right now is Peeta's lips on mine. It's just me and Peeta.

Without a thought, I allow my tongue to trace over his lower lip, and the shudder that shakes Peeta gives me a sense of power. This is effecting him just as much as it is me. This consuming heat. My hands tangle in his blonde curls as his tongue begins to dance with mine. The sensation causes an embarrassing moan to escape me, and I feel Peeta smile into the next kiss. Great, male pride. I would be more annoyed if it weren't for the feel of his hands slowly sliding up my sides before brushing the sides of my breasts.

Whoa, wait a minute. I freeze mid-kiss, causing Peeta to tense as well. Slowly, my eyes open to find myself staring into startling blue eyes that are currently darkened with desire, and yet are shining with surprise, anxiety, and embarrassment.

It's as if both of us just realized exactly how intimate our position is. Somewhere along the line, I shifted so that I'm now straddling him. My fingers are still buried in his curls. Our torsos are practically clued together, and his hands are still resting dangerously close to my chest.

"I . . ."

"Um . . ."

We break apart quickly, both of us blushing in embarrassment. I make it so there's about two feet of space between us, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms aroung my legs, as if I'm worried they'll suddenly develop a mind of their own and straddle Peeta's lap again. Both of us are silent as we try to control our breathing, not daring to look at each other.

Did that seriously just happen? I've only had experience in kissing for three days and suddenly his hands are . . . wandering. More importantly, I've only had experience in kissing for three days and suddenly his hands are wandering . . . and I _like_ it. What. The. Hell.

I have only just recently been introduced to love and it's consuming nature.

I have now met lust, and I swear I'm about to combust.

Did it get hot in here all of a sudden? Or is that just me?

"I'm sorry, Katniss." Peeta is the first to break the silence. I feel his eyes on me and tentatively turn my head to meet his gaze. His cheeks are still flushed and I imagine mine are, too. His next words are bumbling, showcasing his nerves. "I shouldn't have . . . but you . . . and kissing . . . tongue . . . _awesome_ . . . and I'm sixteen and . . . in love with you forever . . . and more kissing . . . and . . ." Peeta trails off, trying to string together a coherent thought. Finally he just says, "My bad."

I can't help it. I burst into a fit of laughter. Peeta stares at me for a confused moment before his lips twitch as his lips form a smile. A chuckle escapes him, which leads to another and then another. Pretty soon both of us are consumed in a fit of embarrassment-induced laughter.

We manage to get a grip on ourselves after a minute or so, and I meet his eyes. "Don't be sorry," I tell him. "I'm just . . . new to all of this."

Whatever 'this' really is. Love. Lust. Relationships in general . . . wait, are Peeta and I in a relationship? Like a _relationship_, relationship? Probably not . . . I'd have to tell him I loved him for that to be true. Is that how these things worked? Or are we unofficial?

Wow, this stuff is complicated.

"Well, I really shouldn't be feeling you up yet," Peeta says before blushing and beginning to stammer. "Not that I expect. . . well . . . you see . . . if you don't want . . . I . . . um . . ." Peeta closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm just going to stop talking."

"Peeta," I laugh. I don't know if my blush will ever fade. "Um . . . let's just move on for now, okay?" Avoidance. I'm good at this. "We have more important things to deal with than hormones right now." My blush deepens. I didn't even know I truly had hormones until now. Peeta, what has your love done to me? Not to mention my own feelings. "Let's just survive the day."

I don't mean for them too, but my words carry a rather poignant note that causes all the embarrassment and tingly warm feelings to vanish. Harsh reality slapping us both in the face. Survive. We have to survive the day. There's no time for our feelings to make us blind to our present circumstance . . . even if I can still feel the ghost of his lips moving with mine, the memory causing my face to flush once more.

"You're right," Peeta agrees, seriousness beginning to take over his expression. "We can, uh, talk later. When we win and get the hell out of here."

"When we win," I repeat, almost like a promise.

"Let's get going, then," Peeta says as he gets to his feet, and I quickly follow his example.

However, I can't help but add. "Peeta?" He looks at me expectantly. Trying to control my blush, I place a hand on his chest as I reach up on my tiptoes to give him a soft kiss. My face flushes with heat as I place my lips at his ear, so no Capitol microphone can hear my words. Only Peeta. "Don't feel guilty," I whisper before admitting in excitement-tinged embarrassment, "I like the feel of your hands on me."

I swear Peeta stops breathing. "Good to know," he says after a second, his voice catching slightly.

I pull away from him and quickly turn away, not looking at him to hide my vivid blush, and busy myself with getting our supplies ready for our hunting trip. After a moment, Peeta is at my side, helping me to pack everything up. I'm immensely grateful that things are so easy and comfortable between Peeta and I. The awkwardness from the previous few minutes has faded completely, both of us able to set aside our feelings and focus on survival. The present.

Then we can think about our future . . . even if the thought causes a nervous fear to tangle in my stomach. I push it away and focus on counting the six arrows in my quiver. Once we're standing outside the cave all of the levity disappears. The seriousness of our situation fully sinks in, and neither of us are thinking of our rather lustful encounter. Survive. That's the name of the Games.

I check my snares that I set before the rain trapped us in the cave, but as I suspected, they're all empty. With the weather the way it's been, all the rabbits would have been hunkered down just like Peeta and I. Nonetheless, I retrieve the wire and place it in one of the packs.

Due to the relentless amount of rain the past few days, the stream has flooded the banks, which is a relief because the water has erased all the signs of Peeta's camouflage. "We'll need to head to my old hunting grounds," I say. "There's not much here."

"Lead the way," Peeta replies, falling into step behind me.

"Keep your ears open," I tell him as I paw fruitlessly at my left ear. Still no sound. It must be irreparable. "Especially the left. I still can't hear."

Ideally, to cover our tracks, I would have us walking in the stream, but I'm afraid that the current, only speeded by the excessive rain, would take too much of a toll on Peeta's leg. Though he is ten times better than he was a few days ago, and the medicine cured the blood poisoning, the wound itself is still serious and weakening. Compiled with his days of inactivity, I know that today's trek will leave Peeta weary.

We walk along the shore until boulders give way to rocks and then rocks give way to pebbles. Finally, we're on my turf, the soft bedding of pine needles springing under my feet. But it's not a minute before I realize that I'm going to have a serious problem.

I'd forgotten how loud Peeta walked. I can't help but compare his tread with Gale's, who can walk so silently that even in fall, when dried, cackling, dead leaves litter the forest floor, he's still able to be virtually soundless.

And then there's Peeta, who sounds like a herd of cattle stomping through the woods. Honestly, I don't know how he manages to be as loud as he is. It's like he purposefully tries to snap every twig he sees on the ground. But I remind myself that Peeta, who has lived in town his entire life, was not taught by his father at the age of eight to walk silently, like my father had taught me. And then, oddly enough, as irritating as it is, I can't help but find a small part of his loud footfalls endearing. It's just one of the things that make Peeta who he is.

I debate my options. The best one, the most logical one, would be for me to dump Peeta someplace safe and hunt on my own. But I know that the idea will be tossed the minute I suggest it. Peeta won't let me out of his sight and I know if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't want him to leave me either. Option two is somewhat reasonable.

"Can you take your boots off?" I ask, and Peeta looks at me oddly. "I'll take mine off too. We'll both be quieter that way." Like I was making any noise. "As it is, no rabbit within a ten-mile radius will come near us."

There. That wasn't too insulting, was it?

I think Peeta reads between the lines though because I seem him blush ever-so slightly before complying with my request. We get moving again, our bootlaces tied together and slung over our shoulders. I know that Peeta is trying to walk quieter, because a twig only snaps every minute or so instead of every second. And the fact that we're bootless is helping.

But it's safe to say that when we reach the spot were Rue and I became allies, I haven't shot a thing.

"How you manage to walk so quietly amazes me," Peeta says as he eases himself down to sit at the base of the tree. His leg began to bother him a mile or so back. I could tell.

"How you manage to walk so loudly amazes me," I retort with a smirk, and Peeta shakes his head.

"Okay, obviously I'm scaring off the game," he says. "We're going to have to split up."

I frown. Not liking the idea. But then again, I can't really see another option.

Peeta is thinking the same thing. "You go on," he suggests. "Show me some plants to gather and then we'll both be useful."

I'm still wary about leaving him. "Not if Cato comes and kills you."

Peeta surprises me by laughing. "Look, I can handle Cato, alright? I fought him before, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and that worked out great," I say before I can stop myself and Peeta huffs indignantly.

Great. Male pride. Just what I need to deal with right now.

"He didn't get away unscathed, either," Peeta mutters, and I can't help but sigh.

"How about you climb a tree and act as a lookout?" I suggest.

"How about you show me some stuff to gather?" Peeta retorts and I throw my hands up in the air in defeat.

"Fine, come here," I say before showing him some roots to dig up. And I show him Rue's berries.

I turn to leave, but Peeta grabs my wrist. "Don't go far, okay?" he says softly, and I know that he's already forgotten our little tiff. "Just in case you run into trouble."

On impulse, I teach him a short, two-note whistle so we can communicate to each other that we're alright.

Once I'm fifteen yards away, I feel the forest come to life around me again. I step quietly through the forest, though in my mind I'm always keeping track of the distance I'm putting between myself and Peeta. Once I'm around fifty yards out I see a flash of a bushy tail and let an arrow fly. One rabbit down.

In the next five minutes, I venture another twenty-five yards and pick up another rabbit and a squirrel. Deciding that this will be enough for the day, I begin to make my way back. I really don't like the fact that I've left Peeta alone, weak and injured (even if he denies it). What if Cato _does_ stumble upon him? Peeta fought him before and lived, but will he be able to manage a second time?

At the thought, my pace quickens. However, not a second later, I realize that it's not Peeta I should be worried about. It's sheer instinct, not my hearing that causes me to suddenly spin toward my left, just in time to see the metallic flash of a blade.

Wielded by Foxface.

Shock causes my reaction to be just a little too slow, and I feel a stinging sensation as the blade cuts across my stomach. The pain snaps my brain into gear, and as Foxface lunges past me, I grab her arm and bring my knee up to hit her wrist, causing her to lose her grip on the knife.

Now we're on an even playing field.

I know my bow is no use, not at this close range, so I let it drop before I tackle Foxface to the ground. We grapple for a few moments, rolling around on the ground, trying to gain the advantage, but like the fox that I nicknamed her after, the girl from District 5 is just as wiry and nimble, constantly slipping out of my hold.

Vaguely, in the back of my mind, I hear Peeta whistling, but I don't have the time to whistle back. Foxface lunges at me, knocking me onto my back and I can't help but compare this fight to my brief fight with Courtney Mathers in the second grade. Lots of rolling around on the ground. Biting. Fingernails.

But when Foxface yanks on my braid that is all it takes for me to snap. There is absolutely _no_ dignity in hair pulling.

I kick Foxface off of me, and reach back behind me to grab an arrow from my quiver. I hear Peeta call my name just as I turn around, arrow raised to charge at my foe.

I see a flash of red hair, and then suddenly Foxface is right in front of me, her bloodied mouth open wide in shock. Confused, I look down. It's almost surreal to see my arrow gripped in my hand, half of the shaft invicible because it's sheathed in Foxface's torso. She impaled herself on my arrow when she lunged at me.

Peeta calls my name again, and I hear him trampling through the forest toward me. I know that I should call out to him, but all I can do is stare at Foxface, who takes one last shuddering breath before falling silent.

The cannon goes off just as Peeta bursts into view.

I shove Foxface's body off of me, cringing at what I'm about to do. I grab the shaft of my arrow and pull it out of her chest, wincing at the sound of the resisting flesh. But I need all the arrows I've got. I only have six left.

When I look up Peeta is at my side, and I barely have time to blink before his arms are around me and his face is buried in my hair. His hold is nearly suffocating, but I don't dare to tell him so. I just hug him back, trying to reassure him that I'm okay. After a few long seconds pass and Peeta shows no hint of letting me go anytime soon, I try to pull away from him. "Peeta, let me go," I say softly. "I'm fine."

There's a second of hesitation, but he does concede to my request and let his arms fall back to his sides. I step away from him slightly and say, "We need to search her stuff. See if she has anything useful."

I hate how cold I sound.

I reach down and pick up the little pack that she'd dropped when she first charged me. There's nothing much. An apple. A cracker. A water bottle. A warm blanket. Some berries. My brow furrows as I pick up one of the berries. It looks very much like the ones that Rue showed me, but I hesitate.

My father's voice enters my mind. _Not these, Katniss. Never these. They're nightlock. You'll be dead before they reach your stomach._

"She would have died anyway," I say softly, holding up the berry to Peeta. "Nightlock," I explain. "They're poisonous."

"Well, we can just throw them out then," he says, but I frown, an idea coming to me.

"No," I say as I take a handful. "If Cato's hungry, he might make the same mistake. We could drop them along the way."

"Alright," Peeta agrees before his eyes widen. "Katniss, you're bleeding!"

"I am?" I ask before remembering the cut on my stomach. I look down and sure enough, on my shirt is a thin, red stain. "It's just a scratch," I placate. If it were anything worse, I doubt I'd be standing and carrying on conversation.

"Let's get back to camp," Peeta says, taking my hand. "We can check it."

I gather my bow and arrows and my kills, the two rabbits and the squirrel. The moment we're far enough away, the birds fall silent and I know that the hovercraft to get Foxface's body is near. Guilt of having taken another life gnaws at me, and it's much more painful than the cut to my stomach. I had known that it would be a possibility, that I would have to kill Foxface, but I actually hadn't thought it would really happen.

"Why would she attack me?" I ask as Peeta makes me lie down near a fire pit, one that he had obviously been working on before he'd dashed off after me. "Direct confrontation isn't her style."

Peeta shrugs as he quickly works to start a fire. He succeeds in minutes, managing to coax a flame from damp wood. Shouldn't surprise me since Peeta's a baker. "She was probably desperate," he says. "The Games are winding down and she knew that she couldn't take on Cato. She probably avoided me because I'm bigger than her. That leaves you."

"How did she know to approach me from the left, though?" I ask, wondering. Had she been around at the explosion?

"She was smart," he explains. "And with the noise I was making coming up here, she probably followed us and heard you say something about it."

Logical deduction. I have no doubt that he's probably right.

His job tending the fire done, Peeta's eyes fall on me. "Now let's look at that cut."

"It's no big deal," I shrug it off. It really only stung a little . . . as long as I didn't move.

Peeta doesn't believe me, and his hands move toward my shirt, the first aid kit sitting on the ground beside him. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Well, the shirt has got to go," he tells me.

"No it doesn't."

Peeta gives me a look. "You stripped me naked," he deadpans. "And you can't part with a shirt?"

He does have a point.

I compromise, lifting my shirt so that it rests under my breasts. When Peeta's hand makes contact with the tender skin of my stomach, I can't help but tense. Not in pain, though. Odd little sparks are shooting through me at the feel of his warm fingertips touching my bare skin.

Our eyes meet, and I know we're both thinking about the incident in the cave and my whispered reassurance to him afterward. _I like the feel your hands on me. _Both of us blush lightly.

I try to focus my attention on my wound. "See?" I say after I look at it. "No big deal."

The cut itself is only four inches long, starting at the curve of my waist and stopping a little short of my bellybutton. It's a thin cut. The kind that bleeds far more than it would seem it should. Nonetheless, Peeta doctors the cut and then tapes a piece of gauze over it.

When he's finished, I move without a word to my kills to gut and clean them. Minutes later they're hanging over the fire, roasting. Peeta and I sit in silence, his arm wrapped around me protectively. I bet if I moved, he'd tighten his hold to keep me next to him.

I find the gesture both irritating and sweet at the same time.

Once the food is cooked we clean up, and I tuck away the one of the rabbits and the squirrel into my pack. I give myself and Peeta a rabbit leg to eat before putting the second rabbit into the pack as well. I'm thinking of where we're going to sleep tonight. Ideally, I'd like to find a tree, but I'm worried that Peeta's leg won't hold up to the task of climbing, especially after the exertion of today. The long hike here and then his sprint toward me when I'd fought Foxface.

That only leaves going back to the cave, because even though it means hours of walking, it's close to water and easy to defend. The fact that I refuse to sleep on the ground in the woods while Cato is out and about is another reason to head back to the cave.

"You up for the hike back to the cave?" I ask Peeta, who in reply merely gets to his feet and throws both packs over his shoulder.

I think he may be mad at me, but I don't really know why.

As I suspected, it takes hours to hike back to the cave, and we're both completely worn out. I pause at the stream to refill our water bottles before following Peeta into the cave. He already has the sleeping bag rolled out and is just about to slide in when I come into the cave.

Without a word, I climb into the sleeping bag, and immediately Peeta's arms are around me. My head falls to rest on his shoulder and I feel Peeta lay his cheek on top of my head. He's barely said a word to me since my fight with Foxface, though he's kept me close.

"Are you mad at me?" I ask quietly.

Peeta sits up a little to look at me. "No. Why would I be?"

"I don't know!" I snap exasperatedly. "That's why I'm asking."

"You just scared me, that's all," Peeta admits. "You didn't whistle back and when I called for you, you didn't answer, and then the cannon went off . . ."

"Oh," I say softly, my frustration fading.

"I thought I lost you there for a minute." Peeta trails his fingertips along my cheekbone. "I can't lose you, Katniss," he says earnestly. "I can't."

I'm not like Peeta. I'm not good with words, but I know that something needs to be said. I need to say something comforting, however, I have no idea what it could be.

So I kiss him instead. This kiss is different from all the others, tinged with desperation and fear. I try to be as reassuring as I can be, if that's even possible when kissing. But, apparently, I must be doing something right because when we break away, Peeta gives me a small smile before placing a tender kiss on my forehead.

Sometimes actions speak louder than words.

* * *

**Well? PK got a little heated in an oh, so delicious way . . . then cue adorable Peeta stammering and Katniss embarrassment.**

**And then I went and had Katniss kill Foxface. I never liked how she died in the books. She was so sly and smart (not to mention she was kind of painted as Katniss's rival in the wits department) and I have to wonder what her game plan was. Obviously, she can't outlast everyone. She doesn't have the skills or the sponsors. Her only option was to attack, and Katniss is the most logical option. **

**Plus, I can't resist writing a chick fight. Chick fights are awesome.**

**Sooo . . . moving on to today's quote from My Last Breath? Who shall the lucky guest star be? Hmm . . . I know! . . . Cinna!**

**"Katniss, why is your shirt hanging from the ceiling fan?"**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	24. Chapter 24

**************************************A/N: Wow, you guys are EPIC in your AWESOMENESS. Just . . . holy oreo! (Yes, oreos are quite heavenly. You must agree.) **

**************************************Anyhoo . . . that's probably getting off topic . . . **

**************************************I was so glad to hear that all of you liked the last chapter! It's definitely one of my favorites. I mean, come on, Peeta was _stammering_ (quite adorably). There is more stammering to come in CF. I really use his stammering to show the effect that Katniss has on him. After all, he's known for always knowing what to say and being really good with words . . . and then Katniss weilds her power makes him bumbling. I'm a big fan of irony, if you haven't noticed yet. lol**

**************************************So! This story is winding down! Coming to a close, it is. I'm ready to jump into My Last Breath, which from here on out will be nicknamed MLB (the inner baseball fan in me can't help but smile at the coincidence). Wow, getting off topic again . . .**

**************************************Let's just get to the chapter, yes? Okay, so here . . . we . . . go!**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won!; Whenever I'm on the golf course and someone says 'Four!' I yell, "FIVE!"; I listen to the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean every time I finish a story; I am a Sherlock Holmes fanatic; I once saw a man riding a cow like a horse, saddle and all. I swear I'm not kidding . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 24

Before I even open my eyes, I know that Peeta is awake. And when I do open my eyes, all I see is a pool of blue. "Hi," he says softly.

I laugh sleepily as I snuggle even closer to him, still half-asleep. "Hi. I thought we'd moved past monosyllabic conversations."

"I'm feeling reminiscent," Peeta says by way of explanation, his arms tightening around me in a way that makes me feel safe and loved. It's a glorious combination. I'd forgotten what it felt like. "And you do scowl a whole lot less when you're sleeping," he adds.

I scowl.

He laughs.

What a day this is starting out to be.

"I have a feeling about today," Peeta admits quietly, his voice serious as he holds me even closer. "I think today is our last day in the arena."

I sigh. He's right. A pit of nerves snake into my stomach and I fight the ridiculous urge to try and physically squirm away from them. Cato. Why does it have to be Cato? Cato, who has it out for me because of my eleven in training, which beat his ten. Cato, who has it out for Peeta because he made him look like a fool lifting weights the first day of training.

My mind forces me to think rationally, analytically. Cato is strong, skilled, and has a temper. I think back to his tantrum when he discovered the blown up supplies. Hair pulling. Screaming. Pounding the ground. If we could get him angry, he might make a mistake.

"Let's eat and then we'll head out," I say, not ready to face our future just yet. We will either be alive or dead in probably less than twenty-four hours. It's quite a thought to wake up to.

Peeta and I eat almost everything we have. We finish off the two rabbits and the squirrel and eat all the greens and berries that he gathered, though I make a point to place the pouch containing the nightlock berries we took from Foxface far away from all the food. Once we're finished, my hands and chin are covered in grease, and I realize for the first time how grimy I look and feel. It's been a while since my bath in the stream the day I woke up from the tracker jackers. We in the Seam may not place hygiene on the very top of our list of importance, after all, most of us are simply trying to get enough food, but I have never gone so long without a bath.

And thinking about it, I really want one. Maybe I can at least dunk my head in the stream and braid back my hair wet.

I know that Peeta and I are stalling when we've checked and rechecked our pack twice. For no reason really. We're only taking the one, filled with the first aid kit, an apple, a blob of cheese, and a roll that we saved from the feast Haymitch sent us.

"Let's go," I finally say, stepping out of the cave.

I immediately notice that where there was once a stream, there is now nothing more than hard-packed dirt. "They must have drained it during the night," Peeta says as I bend down to touch the earth despite myself. Bone dry.

"They want us to head for the lake," I conclude and Peeta nods.

I set my jaw, feeling determination flood me. One way or another, this was ending today. "Then let's go."

Peeta and I don't talk as we make our way through the woods toward the lake. My bow is loaded with one of my six remaining arrows, ready to fire in a second. Peeta has the knife tucked into his belt. Though we don't talk, occasionally Peeta will run his fingers down my arm, or he'll catch my eye and give me a smile. Little things. Little things that mean everything.

When we stop to rest at Rue's old camp, only a hundred yards away from where I'd killed Foxface the day before, we simply sit at the base of the tree, sipping water. I'm extremely glad that I refilled our water bottles last night. The heat of today is stifling.

Peeta and I linger at Rue's camp for maybe half an hour. We sit there, Peeta's arms around me as I rest my back against his chest. Occasionally, he'll plant a kiss in my hair or on my temple. Once, he kisses my neck. When I turn my face up to his, he doesn't hesitate to kiss my lips. My hand comes up to rest along his jaw, and I turn in his embrace so I'm facing him. Our kiss deepens, and my arms come up to circle around his neck. In response, Peeta slips his hand under my shirt, and the feel of his calloused fingers against the bare skin of my back causes a shiver to run through me. Peeta makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and it makes the fire burn brighter in my stomach. This kiss has turned frantic, having lost all its tenderness. Desperation fuels our kiss. Knowing this could be our last day.

My lungs are about to burst, and I break the kiss with an embarrassingly loud gasp, but Peeta's lips never leave me, shifting his focus to my neck since my lips are currently unavailable. "Peeta," I say, still a little breathless, which causes me to blush. "Peeta, stop. We have to keep moving."

Peeta looks up at me and smiles a little ruefully, before giving me a short, sweet kiss. "I know," he sighs. "I guess it's too much to ask to just stay here and keep kissing."

My lips quirk up in a small smile. "You'd be right."

"But you've got to admit this is more fun than facing potential death."

"Definitely."

Peeta and I both share a light laugh, and I marvel at his ability to somehow make everything seem a little bit better.

"Come on, Mellark," I say as I get to my feet, and I hear Peeta shuffling behind me.

We set off once more toward the lake, and I estimate that we'll be there in about two or three hours. Dusk will be falling. The closer we get to the lake and the Cornucopia, the more my nerves settle. Peeta is strictly serious now, so I can't count on his light words to chase away my nervousness. When we finally arrive at the edge of the plain that stretches out toward the Cornucopia, there's no sign of Cato. As a precaution, we make a circle around the edge of the woods, but we find no Cato lurking there, either.

The coast seeming clear, Peeta and I step out onto the plain and head toward the lake. We fill our water bottles and Peeta purifies them. Sitting by the edge of the lake, I look up to see that the mockingjays have gathered around the lake as well. Unable to help myself, I softly sing Rue's song.

The birds pause for a moment, seeing if they like my song, and then they all begin to sing back to me. "Just like your father," Peeta says softly.

I've always been unable to take a compliment. "I think they just remember."

As the mockingjays continue to sing, I hear the harmonic brilliance of Rue's little four-note tune. Sung by the birds together, but at different times, the unearthly harmony created is one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard. I wonder if anyone in District 11 will sing Rue's tune to signal quitting time now that she's dead.

Suddenly, the harmony begins to break. Notes remain unsung. Then, the birds are shrieking in alarm, and Peeta and I are on our feet within the second. My bow is ready to shoot and Peeta draws his knife. I'm scanning the woods when suddenly Cato bursts out of the foliage, running full tilt toward us. I see evidence of his fight with Thresh. His face is purple with bruises. But I don't understand the sense of urgency Cato has about him. His breathing is ragged, like he's been sprinting for a while. He doesn't even have a weapon. I fire an arrow, but to my shock it bounces right off of him.

"He has some sort of body armor!" I shout, but not in time. Cato is upon us.

And he runs right between me and Peeta, completely ignoring us. We look at each other in confusion before looking back toward the woods, just in time to see a large, ugly, wolf-like animal bounding onto the plain. Six others quickly join it.

Peeta and I are already running.

Muttations. That's the only explanation. Sick, horrible creatures created by the Gamemakers to spice up the Games.

My breaths are already coming in gasps as I sprint faster than I would have ever thought possible. My eyes seek for any sort of refuge. The Cornucopia is the only thing in sight, and Cato is already scrambling up the golden horn, having had the same thought process as me.

I'm about thirty yards away when I realize something very important. I stop and spin around. Peeta is fifteen yards behind me, moving as fast as he can with his injured leg. He sees my hesitation. "Go! Katniss, go!" he shouts at me, but I ignore him.

Instead, I hold my ground and raise my bow. I fire an arrow, hitting the mutt closest to Peeta's heels, and I'm immediately loading another. By this time, Peeta is only five yards away from me and I grab his hand and drag him along behind me. I can feel the mutts closing in on us as we reach the Cornucopia.

I feel his hands on my hips and then suddenly I'm tossed into the air, landing halfway up the Cornucopia, and I quickly finish the rest of the climb up. I spare a second of a glance at Cato, who is lying at the mouth of the Cornucopia, gasping and fighting cramping muscles. My attention immediately returns to the ground and I see Peeta struggling to climb up the horn. His leg is hindering him worse than ever, the excess exertion probably causing the wound to bleed. He's stuck the knife in his mouth, biting down on it so that he has both hands free to climb.

A mutt threatens to bite him, but my arrow is shot down its throat. In its last act before death, the mutt lashes out and inadvertently slashes a few of his cohorts. That's when I see the claws. Four inches long and deadly sharp. I reach for Peeta's hand and pull him up the rest of the way. We scramble toward the highest point of the Cornucopia. The mutts have begun to circle us on all sides, some of them standing tall on their hind legs like a bear would . . . but the stance is disturbingly human.

The mutts begin to sniff and scratch at the metal of the Cornucopia, yipping back and forth at one another, communicating. Then, suddenly, a single wolf-mutt begins to walk ominously toward the horn. It's just as large as the others, but something about it strikes me. Its fur is what I can only describe as blonde. And its eyes . . . they're a bright, emerald green. When I see that it's wearing a collar inlaid with a jeweled number one, I shudder in horror and my eyes grow wide.

It's Glimmer.

I don't have time to give this anymore thought because suddenly the Glimmer mutt is lunging toward us. It lands a mere ten feet away and tries to claw its way toward us, but the metal won't allow their claws purchase and slowly the mutt slides back down to the ground. The arrow leaves my bow without a thought, killing the mutt. Only then do I realize how my hands are shaking.

Peeta does too. "Katniss?" he questions, gripping my arm.

"It's her, Peeta!" I choke out, as my eyes scan the rest of the pack. Twenty one mutts. All of them different tributes. I see a red-haired mutt with amber eyes. Foxface. I see the ashen blonde coat of the boy from District 9, the one I fought the backpack for. And then, in the very back, the smallest of the mutts is dark-furred and has wide, chocolate brown eyes.

Rue.

"It's all of them, Peeta," I whisper. "It's all of them! The others. Rue and Foxface . . . it's all of them!"

When Peeta sucks in a breath, I know that he sees it too. "Do you think, no, they couldn't be . . . are those their real eyes?" he asks in disgust and horror.

Eyes? I'm not interested in eyes. I'm wondering how these mutts have been programmed. They seem intelligent enough, but do they have their tribute's memories? Have they been programmed especially to hate us because we lived while they didn't? What about the ones that we killed specifically? Do they actually see killing us as avenging their death?

Suddenly, I see a flash of dark fur to my left and shove Peeta out of the way, before sending an arrow down the throat of a mutt that would have taken Peeta down. It had to be Thresh. Only he would have the strength to jump that high.

I turn back around, but I don't see Peeta beside me. My eyes dart to my right toward the lip of the Cornucopia when I hear a muffled curse. While Peeta and I have been observing the mutts, Cato has been recuperating.

And now he's on his feet, a nasty grin on his face as he holds Peeta in some sort of headlock.

I load an arrow quicker than I ever have before, and it's aimed right between Cato's eyes. Now that I'm closer I can see that he's covered in a skin-tight, flesh-colored mesh. Body armor. No doubt what was in his pack at the feast.

Peeta is gasping for breath that won't come, pawing at Cato's arm.

My eyes narrow as I prepare to fire a headshot, but Cato's voice stops me, "Shoot me and he goes down with me."

I falter. He's right. If Cato falls, I have no doubt that he'll drag Peeta down with him. But, now, I'm stuck in a quandary. If I shoot, Cato falls and takes Peeta with him. If I don't shoot, Peeta dies of asphyxiation. Either way, I lose. Peeta dies.

Cato is smiling because he knows this already. I bet he has a sword or a weapon of some kind hidden somewhere on him. I can see the plan in his mind: Peeta dies, and then he takes me down. Cato is crowned the winner.

Suddenly, Peeta is moving. He kicks out at Cato's knee. Obviously caught off-guard, Cato stumbles slightly and loosens his hold on Peeta. However, Cato is trained far too well for his surprise to hinder him for more than a second. Quickly, he tries to recapture his hold on Peeta, but Peeta has his own wrestling background to fall back on and suddenly he and Cato are locked in a dangerous duel on the edge of the Cornucopia. One false step by either of them and they'll tumble over the edge. I can't possibly get a shot off and be certain that the arrow wouldn't hit Peeta instead. Both of them are moving too fast and too unpredictably, so I'm forced to wait for a clear opening.

But it appears that I won't have too.

Cato throws a wild punch toward Peeta's head, obviously getting frustrated by how Peeta keeps eluding a death by his hands. Unfortunately for Cato, Peeta keeps his cool. Ducking at the last possible second, Peeta capitalizes on an off-balanced Cato, catching his arm and then shoving the triubute from District 2 over the lip of the Cornucopia.

For a split second, I'm nearly knocked to my knees by an enormous wave of relief.

Until Cato miraculously reaches out and grabs Peeta's arm as he's falling, taking my boy with the bread over the edge with him.

* * *

**Yes. That really did just happen.**

**And yes, I really am that cruel.**

**(evil laughter)**

**This is the price Peeta pays for me saving his leg. I know, I know . . . I could have just had Cato fall and that'd be the end of it but . . . where's the fun in that?**

**Okay, okay, MLB quote of the day comes from . . . let's see . . . Effie!**

**"You wouldn't know where Katniss is, would you? I think I've lost her."**

**(trust me when I say that this scene is hilarious)**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	25. Chapter 25

**************************************A/N: I have over a thousand reviews!**

**************************************(runs about wildly in excitment)**

**************************************Wooooooooooo!**

**************************************(absently runs smack into wall)**

**************************************Ow.**

**************************************(leaps to her feet and begins running and screaming once more)**

**************************************Wooo!**

**************************************I think that's enough said on just how ecstatic I am. Now, onto if Peeta lives or dies or loses another limb since I spared his leg . . . or gets maimed . . . or seriously injured . . . **

**************************************Or he could have miraculously grabbed the lip of the Cornucopia . . . nah, too boring . . .**

**************************************Oh! AND this chapter has the moment I think we've all been waiting for. ;)**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won!; Whenever I'm on the golf course and someone says 'Four!' I yell, "FIVE!"; I listen to the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean every time I finish a story; I am a Sherlock Holmes fanatic; I once saw a man riding a cow like a horse, saddle and all. I swear I'm not kidding; Over a 1000 reviews! . . . still think I own HG?**

* * *

Chapter 25

"Peeta!"

I scramble to the lip of the Cornucopia, my arrow still loaded in my bow. My eyes are searching frantically for him, but all I see is a mess of multi-colored fur. All I hear are growls and barks and the scraping of claws on metal.

And then I see a flash of blonde hair.

The mutt pack has formed a sort of tight circle around Peeta and Cato, who stand back to back. As I suspected, Cato had a sword hidden somewhere on him because it's now clutched in his hands and he's wielding it with a fury, chopping and hacking at all the mutts that come near him. The long knife that Peeta has looks pathetic in comparison, but no less deadly when I see Peeta slit the throat of the mutt closest to him.

But I know that this can't possibly last long. Peeta will die if he doesn't get back up on the Cornucopia, and I have to save my two arrows for when they are really needed, which means that I have to watch as one of the mutts slashes its claws across Peeta's chest.

"Go to the horn!" I cry. "You've got to move!"

The mutts seem to favor Cato, most likely because he's giving them a harder time. His body armor that practically covers him from head to toe is so far proving resistant to the mutt's teeth and claws. I see Peeta trying to fight his way through the mutts to get back to the horn so that he can climb back up.

Sheer, overwhelming helplessness flows through me. I can only watch as Peeta fights the mutts that surround him. To my horror, I see the smallest mutt, representing Rue, lunging at him from the side. He won't be able to defend himself in time. Without a thought, I let go of my arrow, and the Rue mutt falls to the ground dead. I feel a sob threaten to choke me, but I fight it back.

Peeta continues to stab and slash at the mutts, dodging when he can, but he's weakening fast. Only adrenaline is keeping his bad leg from giving out, and I can see the blood from where the wound has reopened. I see a lot of blood. I hope that it's from the mutts.

After what seems like forever, Peeta is at the tail-end of the Cornucopia and only two mutts have followed him. He stabs one and it lets out a startled, pained yelp. Peeta doesn't waste time and leaps onto the horn, beginning to climb.

But there's the second mutt.

It leaps into the air, its fanged mouth bared, and hatred shining in its eyes. Its claws, black and razor sharp, extend out from its paws. Peeta is about to die.

I load my last arrow in a flash and let it fly. The mutt's claws just graze Peeta's back before it falls toward the ground, my arrow sticking out of one of its eyes.

I drop my bow and rush toward Peeta, grabbing one of his arms and helping him the rest of the way up. We half-crawl, half-stumble back up the Cornucopia until we're at the mouth again, the highest and farthest we can possibly be from the mutts. I can still hear Cato fighting them. The sound of metal on metal and occasional cries, some animal, some human, permeate the night.

Peeta collapses onto his back, his chest heaving as he takes in as much air as possible. His blue eyes find mine, and somehow, miraculously, he manages to smile at me. "Good to see you," he gasps. "Thought I wouldn't for a minute there."

"Are you crazy?" I yell, referring to his brief scuffle with Cato that sent him over the edge. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Well . . . I was sort of . . . oxygen deprived . . . at the time," Peeta says between breaths. "Seemed like . . . a good idea."

"It was a terrible idea!" I scream, my fear getting the better of me. "Now, look at you!"

"I've probably looked better, haven't I?" Peeta chuckles before wincing.

My hands are shaking as I notice the pool of blood that's beginning to form under him. I curse dropping all of our supplies when we first saw the mutts. I could have used the bandages. "Well, let's see how bad off you are this time," I say, my voice cracking oddly.

I unzip his jacket and ease it off him, ignoring the three long tears going diagonally across it. Peeta's shirt is torn exactly like his jacket, but is spattered with blood, the majority coming from the three long gashes that start at his left shoulder and extend across his chest down to the right side of his waist. They are seeping blood, but I'm relieved that it's not a heavy flow. He'd most certainly bleed out if it weren't so.

I shove the thought away.

Stop the bleeding. That's what I have to do. That's my focus.

Bandages. I need bandages. "Okay, I'm going take your shirt off," I tell him, but Peeta really isn't paying too much attention to me. His head is turned toward the sound of Cato fighting the mutts. I've been desperately trying to ignore the sounds. Cato is losing. His pained cries are more and more frequent. There are simply too many mutts. Even for someone of his skill.

I remove Peeta's shirt and that's when I see the full extent of the damage. Aside from the three gashes on his chest, smaller scratches cover him, and I cringe at the nasty bite mark on his right forearm. All his wounds together have coated his entire torso in blood. And this is only the external damage that I can see. What about internal damage? How did the twenty foot fall from the Cornucopia hurt him? I note that his breathing has yet to slow, and he's still gasping rather than taking in a good lungful of air. I tell myself that it's just a natural reaction to excessive pain, but I can't help but worry about broken ribs and if one might have punctured a lung.

Where do I even begin? How do I decide which needs a bandage?

I decide that his chest is the worst, so I focus my attention there. I rip the remains of his shirt into strips, grateful that the long sleeves are mostly intact. I begin the long process of wrapping the makeshift bandages around him, but it's clear to me that I'll need more, and I can't sacrifice his jacket. Night has only just now fallen and the temperature has already dropped at least twenty degrees. The metal of the Cornucopia that was burning hot when I first climbed it is now ice cold. I tell myself that this is good for Peeta's wounds. The cold with help decrease the blood loss.

I quickly unzip my jacket, ignoring how my skin is immediately dotted with goosebumps. Knowing what I'm about to do, I grit my teeth and get it over with. Ignoring the fact that every person in Panem is about to see me shirtless, I quickly rid myself of my shirt before covering myself with my jacket, zipping it up in a flash. I'm already shivering from the brief exposure, and I can't imagine how Peeta is feeling at the moment.

Peeta's eyes are on me, but I ignore him. If the situation weren't so dire, I might be embarrassed that he just saw me, however briefly, without my shirt with only a dirty white bra to preserve my modesty. I focus on the task at hand, ripping my shirt to make more bandages. Eventually, I've done the best I can do, making sure that the bandages are wrapped tightly enough to help with any busted ribs he may or may not have.

I ignore the fact that blood is already beginning to seep through the dressings.

I help Peeta back into his jacket, but he's still shaking with cold. So am I. Peeta unzips his jacket, and weakly motions for me to lay with him. "But—" I begin, my eyes darting to his wounds, but Peeta shakes his head.

"Don't care."

So I cuddle up next to him, and he zips up his jacket around us both. I try to position myself so that I'm not directly touching any of his wounds, but it's a tough task. His right shoulder is relatively unscathed, so I rest my head there. I drape my arm over his waist as lightly as possible, but I still hear him hiss in pain.

With nothing left to distract me, I can no longer distance myself from Cato's cries, which have now turned to moans. I can only imagine his pain. His armor, which is the only thing that has kept him alive, is still serving its purpose, but now it is only prolonging his death and his suffering. The mutts are gnawing on him, slowly killing him. I hear them dragging his body across the ground. His sharp cries of agony pierce the air, and I bury my face into Peeta's shoulder.

The night drags on, and it's the worst night of my life. Cato's whimpering as the mutts work away at him is slowly driving me insane, and Peeta is slowly fading as well. I can feel it in his breaths, which are slowly becoming more and more hollow. I refuse to let Peeta fall asleep, too worried that if he closes his eyes, he might not open them again. I call out his name each time his lids flutter closed, but as the night progresses, I have to yell louder and louder to keep him with me.

The air is unbearably cold, like the Gamemakers want to turn us into icicles. Even with my jacket and Peeta's, I'm still shivering. When the sun finally breaks over the horizon, a cannon sounds. Immediately, my eyes dart up to Peeta, just to make sure that he's still with me.

Blue eyes meet my grey, and I relax. Slowly, the gravity of the situation is sinking in. Cato is dead.

Peeta and I have won the Hunger Games.

"We won," Peeta says hollowly.

"Hurray for us," I say, my voice just as tired and hollow.

Peeta unzips his jacket and I disentangle myself from him. His bandages are soaked through with blood and the red stains my jacket as well. I ease him up into a sitting position, and Peeta sucks in a sharp breath, the pain overwhelming him for a moment. Neither of us move from our new position. We're waiting; waiting for some kind of sign, some announcement saying that we won.

It doesn't come.

"Maybe . . . we have to . . . get away from . . . the body," Peeta suggests between gasps of pain.

Do we? Do we have to get away from the final kill? My mind is so befuddled and slow due to the stress and the cold that I can't remember from previous Games.

"Think you can make it to the lake?" I ask.

"Think I better try."

It's a team effort to say the least, but Peeta and I manage to get on the ground. My limbs are so incredibly stiff from the cold that every movement is pain and sends jolts through my bones. I have no idea how Peeta is even managing to stand.

A little voice in the back of my mind is also wondering how Peeta is even managing to keep breathing, but I ignore it and the chills the thought sends through my spine.

We make it to the lake, and I reach down to our pack that we dropped in our haste to get to the Cornucopia and escape the mutts. I grab a water bottle and take a big gulp before giving it to Peeta. He needs it much more than I do.

"What's taking them so long?" Peeta asks weakly, but I see some idea begin to spin in his mind. He looks suspicious.

"I don't know."

A glint of silver catches my eye and I see that it's my arrow that deflected off of Cato's armor. I'm bending down to pick it up when Claudius Templesmith's voice echoes throughout the arena.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I stare at Peeta in disbelief, and to my surprise he gives me a sad smile. "You got to admit it's a dramatic finale," he says softly.

It was all a lie. The rule change. These Games were engineered from the very beginning, or at least since our time in the cave. To ensure the most dramatic finale. The star-crossed lovers of District 12 choosing which one of them will live.

My eyes look up when I see Peeta raise the knife. Instinct causes me to react, my loaded bow aimed right at his heart. Peeta merely raises his eyebrows before tossing the knife into the lake. My bow slips from my hands as shame courses through me. Peeta would never hurt me.

But he's shoving my bow back into my hands. "Do it," he says gently. "Go home."

"No." I shake my head. "No!"

"Please, just do it before they send the mutts back out." Peeta's voice sounds so persuasive, but it's not going to work on me. "I don't want to die like Cato."

"Don't guilt me into this!" I shout angrily at him. My body begins to shake with the sobs I'm repressing. "I'm not killing you!"

"It's what I want!" It's the first time Peeta's ever raised his voice to me. "Go home, Katniss! To Prim! To your mother! That was your plan all along!"

It's a low blow and he knows it. Prim. It's also the one thing that could make me actually do it. Kill Peeta. To go home to Prim.

But I can't. The tears and sobs that I've managed to quell so far escape me. My hands are trembling. My heart is aching. I can't do it. I can't kill him.

I can't do it.

My tears slide down my cheeks as I shake my head, and Peeta groans in frustration, running a bloodied hand through his hair. "Why not?" he asks me. "I'm going to die anyway, we both know it! You're just going to let me bleed out?"

"Stop trying to guilt me into killing you!" I scream at him. "I can't do it! I can't!"

Peeta is so frustrated he looks angry. "Why?" he asks again, and I finally snap.

"Because I love you!"

Peeta stares at me, and for a moment I worry that he's stopped breathing. As it is, I'm wondering if I have too. I feel oddly starved for oxygen. This was not how I ever pictured telling him.

The words are pouring out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Rue asked me what being in love was like," I admit, more tears flowing because of the pain of her death. "And I—I didn't know what to say, but I . . . I told her that . . . that love was when you couldn't imagine surviving without him." I look up at Peeta, who can only stare at me. "I can't survive without you, Peeta," I whisper.

To my surprise, a tired laugh escapes him. Anger begins to bubble within me, but it vanishes the moment his hand touches my face. His lips meet mine and my eyes close. He cradles my face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears that slip from my eyes. This kiss feels different from the others. Warmer. My heart swells in a way it never has. Because for the first time, we're on even ground. I know that he loves me. He knows that I love him.

When we break away, Peeta rests his forehead against mine. "All the years I've dreamed of you saying that, and you choose _now_ to tell me?" he asks with a sad smile.

"I'm not good with words," I tell him softly. "That's you."

Peeta smiles a little, but it falls. "They have to have a victor, Katniss." He trails his fingertips along my cheekbone. "That's all they want."

All they want is a victor . . .

An idea strikes me. It's crazy. It's ridiculous. It's suicidal.

And it just might work.

I run over to the pack that lies on the ground and snatch up the pouch that has the nightlock berries. When I return to Peeta, he's looking at me like I've finally lost it. Maybe I have.

"Katniss, you can't—"

"Trust me," I implore as I put half the berries in his hand, closing his fingers around them. Peeta is still looking at me apprehensively. "Trust me," I repeat softly, and I see the light in Peeta's eyes. He realizes what I'm trying to do.

I pour the rest of the berries in my palm. "On the count of three?"

Peeta bends down to kiss me gently, whispering against my lips. "On the count of three."

We turn so that we're back to back, our free hands twined together at our sides. "Hold them out," Peeta says. "I want everyone to see."

I hold my hand out, showing the nightlock to all of Panem, but most importantly the Gamemakers.

"Three," I begin the countdown.

_Please let this work._

"Two," Peeta whispers, squeezing my hand.

_Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they'll let us die._

"One," I finish and the berries pass my lips.

Trumpets suddenly blare, and the frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith rings out into the arena.

"Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you—the tributes of District 12!"

The berries spew from my mouth, and I'm wiping my tongue on the sleeve of my jacket to make sure I don't swallow any juice. Peeta leads us to the lake and we flush our mouths with water just in case. I turn to Peeta, "Did you swallow any?"

"No," he replies, though his breathing is sounding more labored. His eyes flutter closed breifly before he forces them open. "Did you?"

I shake my head, knowing that he won't hear my response. The Gamemakers are playing the Capitol's live reaction to our win in the arena, and the roar of the crowd is so loud I'm astounded that even this noise can't be picked up by my left ear.

Peeta suddenly begins to sway on his feet, and my eyes grow wide. "I thought you didn't swallow any!"

But I see that nightlock is not what is causing him to sway. It's blood loss. Blood is seeping through the bandages, dripping toward the ground. When the ladder from the hovercraft drops down, I make sure that Peeta grabs it. With one hand I hold onto the ladder, but my other is fisted into the back of his jacket. The electric current freezes us in place, and I can only watch him slowly fade away from me.

The moment we're on the hovercraft and free from the electric current, doctors rush us, but it's like I'm still in the arena. When they try to take Peeta away from me, I refuse to let go, screaming and cursing and flailing about like a madwoman. It takes four people to drag me away from Peeta, and even then I refuse to let go, ripping out a handful of fabric from his jacket. I'm still struggling when they put me in a glass room, separating me from Peeta.

I pound on the glass, shaking it. I'm still screaming, but I don't know if they can hear me. Tons of medical equipment is scattered about and the doctors lay Peeta on an operating table. I'm terrified of all the instruments that sit on tables beside the doctors. They are all weapons of the cruelest kind in my eyes. Vaguely, I hear an attendant to my right offering me a beverage. I think I knock it from her hands.

My eyes are focused not on Peeta, but on a machine standing by his head. I watch as the line moves up and down. His heart is still beating. He's still alive.

Suddenly, the line begins skyrocket. I can almost imagine the manic beeping as it tries to keep up with the rapid rate of Peeta's heart. My hands cease their pounding on the glass. My eyes widen in fear, and I feel my heart rate speed up, too. Like I'm trying to keep pace with Peeta. The line representing his heartbeat moves frantically as it tries to keep pace with his heart. Seconds pass when suddenly the world stills, and my heart, which had been beating franticly along with Peeta's, shatters. A red line flows smoothly across the screen, taunting me with the horrifying truth.

Peeta's heart is no longer beating.

* * *

**Yeah . . . whoopsie?**

**I swear, I really do love Peeta. With all my heart. But . . .**

**(cackles with evil laughter)**

**Cliffhangers are just _so_ much fun! **

**And really, something good happened this chapter! Katniss told Peeta she loves him! That's good, right? So what if I went and killed Peeta . . . maybe. You know, those Capitol doctors work miracles . . . **

**Okay, okay, one more chapter after this one, people! Only one more to go! Hmm . . . what evil do I have planned? Muahahahahahaha!**

**Let's see . . . quote from MLB, quote from MLB, what shall you be? Gale. Yeah, I think it's about time he had his say.**

**"You were supposed to fall in love with me!"**

**Rut roh. Smells like teenage drama.**

**Lots of love,**

**AC**


	26. Chapter 26

**************************************A/N: Well, here we are! The final chapter of STWOM. I cannot believe the response that I've gotten to this story. The amount of reviews I've recieved for this story is insane, and while admittedly a goal of mine, I never thought I would achieve a thousand reviews, quite honestly. However, I've never been so happy to be proven wrong. **

**************************************That being said, I think that my reviewers need a special thanks. You guys were a wonderful confidence boost and definitely provided a sometimes much-needed push to get off my lazy butt and start writing. Reading your reviews always brought a smile to my face, and while I always tried to reply to your reviews to show my thanks, I think that a shout-out is owed to you guys as well. You guys are too important to not be recognized for your awesomeness.**

**************************************So . . . a big THANK YOU to:**

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**And if I forgot anyone or mispelled anything, consider me slapped upside the head. :)**

**************************************Random Disclaimer: I do not own the _Hunger Games_. Peeta and Katniss are just my puppet pals for a while; Smurfs make the best spies; I keep Jack Sparrow in my basement; Dumbledore or Gandalf?. . .biggest question in my life; I think seagulls are strange creatures; Spock rocks; I am terrified of hand puppets; Elves are real...Legolas and I talk...Be jealous; I saw Bob Barker drop kick a small goat once; Timon and Pumbaa are the ULTIMATE dynamic duo; the Fonz is the man; Peeta Mellark is a sexy beast; Vampires should NOT sparkle; Merpeople are real, they're just shy; "Voldy's gone moldy!"; Severus Snape is awesome; I am very fond of 'Gibbs slapping'; Oreos are the BEST; I start college in a month, yikes; OMG over 700 reviews!; I had an arguement with my wall yesterday. Don't worry. I won!; Whenever I'm on the golf course and someone says 'Four!' I yell, "FIVE!"; I listen to the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean every time I finish a story; I am a Sherlock Holmes fanatic; I once saw a man riding a cow like a horse, saddle and all. I swear I'm not kidding; Over a 1000 reviews!; I have the best readers ever . . . still think I own HG?**

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Chapter 26

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep . . .

My eyes flutter open, and immediately I'm wincing, the bright light too much. Slowly, I open my eyes once more, blinking rapidly as my eyes adjust. My senses are beginning to catch up with me. The air smells like antiseptic. The colors are bland and white. A soft yellow light is attached to the ceiling.

Hospital.

That explains the annoying beeping. My heart monitor.

The beeping suddenly gets faster. Peeta. Is he alive? Is he dead? I don't remember. I force myself to think back. I remember getting on the hovercraft. I remember pounding the glass that separated me from him. A flash of pink hair. Effie?

Then nothing.

My heart rate speeds up even more, the beeping sounding frantic. Well, I'm feeling fairly frantic. Peeta might be dead. But he can't be. Not after everything we've been through. He's already survived so much. Cato. The mutts. He can't die. He can't die.

He can't leave me to face this alone.

People begin rushing into my room, asking me questions, but I ignore them all. "Where's Peeta?" I ask loudly, my voice cracking from disuse. "Where is he? Is he alive? Tell me!" No one answers me, and it only agitates me more. "Tell me!" I scream. "Where is he? Peeta!" One of them moves toward me with a syringe and I'm struggling to get away, but a large band around my waist prevents me from doing so. My arms are flailing and my legs are kicking. Several hands are on me, pinning me down, but I still fight. However, I'm overcome. The needle punctures my arm and everything fades to black.

The next time I wake up, I notice that my wrists and ankles are in restraints. Great. I'm that popular.

I hear a door slide open and my head turns to my right. The redheaded Avox enters the room, carrying a tray. She sets it down on my lap and then presses a button, causing the head of my bed to rise so that I'm sitting up. I see an attendant standing in the back of the room, but he looks too burly to be a doctor. No doubt he's here to make sure I don't do anything crazy. Like attack the Avox.

My eyes return to the Avox. "Is Peeta alive?" I ask softly.

She nods her head.

Yes. That means _yes_. Yes. Peeta is alive. Alive.

Relief like I've never felt courses through me. The Avox frees me from my restraints. Just my hands though, to allow me to eat. I eye my food in dissatisfaction. A bowl of broth, a cup of applesauce, and a glass of water.

Okay, I may have attacked a bunch of doctors, but they really don't need to punish me this way.

Surprisingly though, I find that my meager meal is tough to finish. My stomach feels like it's the size of a nut. When was the last time I ate? I remember eating my last meal in the arena, a fairly large breakfast, and I'd had no trouble eating it all.

Suddenly, something cool enters my veins and I have just enough time to mutter a curse before I fall into the blackness again. It continues like this for what feels like days. I wake up just in time to eat and then they knock me out immediately after. I'm semi-aware while unconscious. I hear scuttling about my room. And I think I heard yelling at one time. But the voice was one that was familiar, reminding me of home. Haymitch. The thought that he's still watching out for me is comforting.

When my eyes open again, I notice that I'm disconnected from the tubes that were once in my arm. I also notice my skin. I'm practically glowing. I trail my fingertips along my arm, amazed by the smoothness. I run my fingers through my hair, and then I freeze. I run my hand through my hair again on my left side.

I can hear again.

I feel a smile tug at my lips. My hand flies to my forehead, and all I feel is a smooth expanse of skin. No scar from Clove's knife. Immediately, I'm feeling the skin of my calf. No scar from my burn. I begin to notice little things. The tiny scar on my forearm from an arrow that clipped me when I was just beginning to learn how to shoot—it's gone too. I'm completely scar free. There's no evidence that I was ever in the Games. Only my memories and the still-fresh fear and horror are left to remind me.

Hesitantly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get to my feet. I'm able to stand easily. I see the clothes laid out for me at the end of the bed, and I frown. It's the same outfit I wore into the arena down to the undergarments. I stare at it like it's going to attack me for at least five minutes before I force myself into it.

I glance around once I'm dressed. There's no one keeping me here, I realize, and I'm filled with an overwhelming need to see Peeta. I haven't seen him since he flat lined in the hovercraft. Technically, the last time I saw him he was dead. I need to see him alive and breathing. I need to feel his arms around me. I need _him_.

It's with this resolve flowing through me that I march out of my room into a hallway. There are doors lining each side, and I'm sure that Peeta is in one of them. As I'm debating which door to choose, I hear the telltale clicking of Effie Trinket's high heels, and she's gaining speed.

I turn to my left and see that Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna are walking toward me. Surprising myself, I take off at a sprint toward them. I don't care how 'unvictor-like' it may be. I surprise myself even more when the first person I greet is Haymitch. My arms are around his neck in a tight hold, my feet are dangling off the floor, but I don't care. "Nice job, sweetheart," he says to me genuinely.

"Thank you," I whisper in reply and I swear that Haymitch holds me a little bit tighter at my words before setting me back on my feet.

Effie is petting my hair, absolutely beside herself. She's happy for me. Genuinely. And I give her a little hug too. I approach Cinna last, and he gives me one of his kind, small smiles before opening his arms for me. I don't hesitate to wrap my arms around him in a big hug.

However, I notice that someone is missing.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask. "He's alive, right? I mean—"

"He's fine," Haymitch assures me. "They want to save your reunion live on air for the ceremonies."

I scowl. "Of course they do."

"Go with Cinna," Haymitch says. "You need to get ready."

Cinna puts a comforting arm around my shoulders, and leads me through the maze of the hospital. We don't meet many people, and I assume it's due to the route that he's taking. I'm grateful that he realizes I don't want to be around a lot of people. It's just too much for me right now. I'm too jumpy, half of my mind still in the arena.

"I hear you put up quite a fuss when you first woke up," Cinna says calmly, but I detect the smile in his voice.

We load the elevator as I shrug. "They wouldn't answer me."

"What was your question?"

"If Peeta was alive."

Cinna is frowning, but says no more on the subject. He doesn't need to. His silent disapproval is enough for me. I realize as we shoot upward in the elevator that the hospital must be deep underground because we pass the floor where we trained for the Games.

When the doors open we're swarmed by my prep team, all of whom begin to chatter incoherently about the Games. It makes me sick the way that they go on about the Games. It's all about them. What they were doing when. Octavia was in the shower when I found Peeta in the mud along the stream. Flavius had just gotten his eyebrows dyed when I blew up the Career's supplies. Venia was getting her nails done when Peeta and I first kissed in the cave.

It was all about them. Forget the twenty-two children that died.

In District 12 we watch the Games because we have to. We grit our teeth until it's over and then we quickly work to get things back to normal. Here in the Capitol it's the complete opposite. Everyone won't shut up about them. In order to prevent myself from strangling one of them, I effectively tune them out.

Hours later when Cinna comes in, carrying a simple yellow dress over his arm, I'm relieved to be in the presence of someone who understands how I feel. My gaze lingers on the dress though, so seemingly ineffectual. "Doing away with the fire?" I ask.

"You tell me," he replies as he slips it over my head. The first thing I notice is the extra padding over my breasts. I grab the padding and look at Cinna questioningly.

"The Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically," he explains. "Haymitch had a huge argument with them. This was the compromise."

I'm eternally grateful for Haymitch. It's nice to know I still had someone on my side, watching out for me.

I return my attention to the dress. It's a light fabric that hits above my knee. The material crosses under my chest, adding to the effect of curves that I don't possess. My eyes finally look at my reflection in the mirror and I'm stunned. I look so . . . so _innocent_. A young girl. A young, vulnerable girl. My hair falling in innocent waves over my shoulders. And my dress, my dress seems to glow like candlelight.

This is a very calculated look. With this look, it's hard to believe that I just won the Hunger Games.

"This is . . . not what I was expecting," I tell him honestly. "It's beautiful of course, but I was expecting something a little more sophisticated."

Cinna smiles, but it looks oddly forced. I sense a warning in his dark eyes. "I thought Peeta would like this better."

No. This isn't for Peeta, though I'm sure he will like it. This look is for the audience. Why? Why go for this look? This move is calculated. I have to fight a shiver. A bad feeling settles in my stomach as Cinna helps me into my shoes, which are simple, flat leather sandals.

We make our way to the level where we trained for the Games. I'm led to a pedestal far too smiliar to the one that launched me into the Games for my liking, and told to stand on it. The pedestal will rise and take me up to the stage where Caesar Flickerman will be waiting for Peeta and I. Cinna and my prep team leave me, having to change into their own outfits for the ceremony, and I'm left alone. I see a hastily constructed wall ten feet to my right, and I know that Peeta must be on the other side.

I'm just about to bang on the wall, to see if Peeta will somehow deduce that it's me and pound on the wall in reply, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I jump and spin around to face my attacker, but it's only Haymitch.

"Easy, it's just me," he says in understanding. "Let's have a look at you."

I turn in a full circle for him, and he nods decisively. "Good enough," he says but something seems off.

"But what?"

"But nothing," he shakes his head. "How about a hug for luck?"

An odd request coming from Haymitch, but I wrap my arms around him anyway. Suddenly, he's speaking into my ear, very quickly and very quietly. My hair provides a sort of curtain so that his lips aren't seen. "Listen up, you're in trouble. Word is that the Capitol is furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at, and now they're the joke of Panem."

I force myself to laugh, like he said something funny. This news is most definitely _not_ funny.

"Your only defense is that you were so in love with Peeta that you weren't responsible for your actions," Haymitch continues.

"But I do love him," I say softly.

"It's not me you need to convince, sweetheart," Haymitch replies before stepping away from me. He straightens my headband, so I fiddle with his red bowtie that Cinna must have strangled him into wearing tonight.

Haymitch leads me to the pedestal, and then places a kiss on my forehead. "This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it."

I swallow convulsively as Haymitch leaves. What have I done? Angered the Capitol? The Gamemakers? Worse. President Snow. Now that I'm out of the Games, it's not just me anymore. It's Peeta, too. My family. Prim. My mother. Maybe even Gale.

At the time, I had only been thinking of a way to get both Peeta and I out alive. It wasn't about defying the Capitol necessarily. It was just keeping Peeta alive.

I hear Caesar Flickerman's voice, warming up the crowd with a few jokes to get them excited and laughing. Then, I hear my prep team introduced, followed by Effie, who is soaking this up, getting the recognition she thinks she's due. Which, I suppose she is. I wonder how much trouble she realizes we're in. There's something about Effie, an instinct she has, that makes me think that she does realize, somewhat at least. The audience is a roar when Cinna and Portia come out, and they deserve it wholeheartedly. They were stars, having made the grandest debut. Next is Haymitch, and the crowd goes wild, stomping and cheering for a solid five minutes before they quiet down enough.

And then my pedestal is rising. Bright lights blind me, and their cheers threaten to deafen me. But that barely registers to me once I look to my right and see Peeta. He's dressed up in a coal black suit, his shirt matching the color of my dress. He looks perfect and healthy.

He smiles at me, and before I realize it I'm closing the space between us in three bounds. I leap into his arms, clinging to him for dear life. He's alive! And warm and comforting and strong. His arms tighten around me, and he twirls us in a circle before setting me down on my feet.

Our lips meet and I glue myself to him. My hands are in his hair, no doubt causing his prep team to flinch, but I don't care. The strength of Peeta's hold borders on being too tight, but I wouldn't have it any other way. We kiss and kiss and when Caesar tries to break us up, Peeta shoves him away with one arm, his lips never leaving mine the entire time.

All I can think about is how he's alive and whole. How his arms are strong again, wrapping me protectively in his embrace. I don't care that we're in front of an entire nation right now. All that matters is Peeta and that he's alive and with me.

Finally, Haymitch climbs on stage and breaks us apart, pushing us in the direction of the victor's chair. Well, this year it's more like a victor's couch. It's a soft velvet loveseat, and I can't help but surreptitiously run my fingers over the material.

Peeta sits first, and I sit beside him. However, it's quickly not enough for me, and I kick off my shoes and then fold my feet under me, leaning my head on Peeta's shoulder. Immediately his arm is around me, holding me close, but I can't help but notice that his embrace has a more possessive connotation. Protective, too. Did Haymitch tell Peeta what he'd told me?

If so, the feeling I get from his actions makes sense. It also comforts me a great deal, knowing that I'm not in this alone, knowing that there's someone watching over me.

Caesar gets the ball rolling, and then it's time for the show. This will last three hours, and I'm sure it will be torture. Peeta and I are about to be shown the video of the Games. I do not want to see my fellow twenty-two tributes die. I don't want to have to relive the past few weeks again. But as the seal of Panem appears on the screen, I realize that I have no choice.

If I could, I would take Peeta's hand and run. As it is, the only thing keeping me here on the loveseat is his arm around me, which has tightened like he knows what I'm thinking. I don't want to watch this. I'm completely unprepared for it. Sometimes they will show the victor's reaction to a certain scene in a small box at the top of the screen. I've seen some victors fist pump in triumph, while some simply smile. Most stare, stunned.

How the editors have managed to condense weeks of film into three hours is quite a feat, and they have to choose what story they want to tell. This year, for the first time, they choose to tell a love story. It's almost obscene, the amount of time that Peeta and I occupy the screen. I'm glad though, because it gives evidence that my actions were motivated out of love. That the berries were not a rebellion against the Capitol. I was simply trying to get Peeta and I out of there alive.

They play our reaping, focusing on mine and Peeta's grasped hands. They move on to the opening ceremonies, where we are seen once again together, holding hands, an united front. They play the entire length of each of our interviews. And then it cuts to the Games. I see the blood bath unfold. I watch my struggle with the boy from 9 over the backpack. I watch Cato and the Careers kill tribute after tribute. Peeta's fingers dig into my waist as I watch him kill the boy from 4. I squeeze his knee in comfort.

Finally, the blood bath is over and I watch as they follow Peeta and I. Me teasing Peeta about being afraid of heights. The wall of fire descending upon us. Peeta carrying me. Our fight with the Careers causes me to cringe, especially when I stab Glimmer with my arrow before ripping it out of her and firing it at Clove.

It's like I'm watching an entirely different person. I feel oddly disconnected from what I'm watching. It's not me. That can't be me. I cringe during Peeta and Cato's fight, which was much more brutal than I anticipated. This fight makes the one they had atop the Cornucopia look like a scuffle. The tracker jackers fall, and Peeta and I are separated.

While Peeta is camouflaged in the mud, whispering my name in his fevered sleep, I've allied with Rue. I blow up the Career's supplies. And then they show Rue's death in all its facets. I see the spear enter her body once more. I hold her hand. I sing to her. They play every single note. Something in me shuts down at this point, and I retract within myself.

Of course, they don't show me covering her in flowers. Even that is a form of rebellion.

They spend an inordinate amount of time on Peeta and I in the cave. Me nursing him back to health, all our kisses. I can't help but blush when they play our heated kiss in the sleeping bag. Peeta asking me if I was warm enough, and my response of being on fire. And, of course, they show my flushed reaction on screen.

Peeta leans down to kiss my temple, playing for the audience, but also reassuring me, reminding me that he's here with me.

When they play the scene at the Cornucopia with me, Peeta, and Cato, I can't help but bury my face in Peeta's shoulder when they go over the edge. I feel the fear of that time, the panic, and it's unbearable to be on stage under the bright lights. Peeta holds me closer, but it doesn't help much.

Cato's death is gruesome. I can't even think much more on it without feeling sick.

And then the moment with the berries fills the screen. The desperation. But even I can see the love on the screen. Me. Katniss Everdeen, the girl who can barely discern her own emotions, let alone anyone else's. Surely there's no one that needs to be convinced that my intentions were done to save us both? Because I literally can't imagine surviving without Peeta Mellark.

Finally, it's all over, and I can't get off the stage fast enough. Peeta's hand never leaves mine as we're escorted to the banquet held for us. The entire affair is a hassle and an odd form of torture as I'm forced for hours to smile and greet people who congratulate me for winning the Games. Peeta, of course, is better at this than I am, a lot of the time doing the talking for both of us, for which I am extremely grateful.

Occasionally, I catch Haymitch's eye, and it reassures me. But all the reassurance in the world could not stop the fear that shoots through me when President Snow meets my gaze. _Snake_ is the first thing that comes to mind as I look at him. A very venomous snake, poised to strike.

When they call Peeta and I to the stage to present us with the victor's crown, everyone is in a riot. President Snow comes onto the stage, all smiles and congeniality. I still think he's a snake. A dangerous one.

However, I'm slightly confused when I see that he only has one crown in his hands. Whose head will he put it on? Mine or Peeta's? Snow suddenly gives the crown a twist, and it separates into two pieces, two crowns.

He crowns Peeta first, giving him a smile. But when he reaches me, I feel fear freeze me in place. He's still smiling, but his eyes are shining with blame and hatred. Because I'm the one responsible. The berries were my idea. I'm the one to be punished.

The sun is rising when we all stumble onto the twelfth floor of the Training Center. Haymitch looks to both of us. "Get to bed," he says. "Separate beds. No funny business," he smirks at the end before leaving Peeta and I in the hall.

Peeta and I both blush when we look at each other. "Guess I'll see you in a few hours," Peeta says, moving away from me, but I grab his hand.

"No, stay with me," I blurt. I don't want to let him out of my sight. Bad things seem to happen when we're separated.

Peeta smiles, wrapping his arms around me and giving me a sweet kiss, "Always."

Neither of us sleeps. We simply lie there on the soft Capitol bed holding each other. I think I might have actually dozed off a few times though, because when Effie knocks on my door, announcing that it's another big, big, big, day, I jolt.

Peeta shifts so that he's lying on his side facing me. He leans down toward me and I reach up and meet him halfway, kissing him almost lazily. Peeta's hand rests in the curve of my waist, and mine have found purchase on his shoulders. When we break away, Peeta is grinning. "I should probably sneak back into my room before Effie finds out that I'm not there."

I laugh. "I shudder to think of the riot act she'd read us. Improper! Poor manners! Unbelievable!" I say in my best Effie impression.

"Right," Peeta agrees, giving me another quick kiss before making a grand show of sneaking out of my room that has me in hysterics, especially when he shoulder rolls across my floor before pressing himself to my wall, opening my door in a flash, and practically leaping across the hallway.

Cinna comes into my room not a minute later. "I heard you all the way in the dining room," he says with a smile. "Care to share?"

I shake my head, a laugh escaping me.

Cinna gets me ready for the interview with Caesar Flickerman all by himself. My hair, my makeup, everything. I'm grateful. I don't know if I could deal with the excitement of my prep team again, especially if they were like they were last night.

Even though Caesar was with us last night when we re-watched the Games, we didn't have an interview. This is what's happening this morning. We don't even have to go anywhere. The interview will take place in the sitting room of our suite. No live audience. Just me, Peeta, Haymitch, Caesar, and the camera crew.

When Cinna declares me ready, I'm clothed in a gauzy white dress with pink shoes. My makeup makes me look young and vulnerable again, like last night. Keep with the theme.

When I walk into the sitting room, Caesar is already there waiting. Peeta is absent. I sit down and we make idle chitchat very briefly. He assures me that nothing I say can be wrong. I inwardly scoff. He has no idea.

Peeta's arrival relaxes me a little, and he immediately puts his arm around me, pulling me closer. I take the same position I did last night. My feet tucked underneath me and my head on his shoulder. Peeta and Caesar easily have a rapport going, and I say a few words here and there, mostly smiling a lot, redirecting the conversation to Peeta. However, eventually Caesar gets down to business, asking the hard questions that require longer answers.

"Well, Peeta, we know from our days in the cave that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?"

Peeta glances down at me with a smile. "From the moment I laid eyes on her."

"But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?" Caesar asks.

Could he have asked a harder question? Seriously. How do I answer that?

"I-I don't know . . ." I pause. "I guess it was when I thought he was dead. Until that point, all my feelings were so confusing and I was trying to ignore them, but when . . . when I thought he was dead, I just . . . I realized how much he truly meant to me. It's true when people say that you don't realize what you have until it's gone," I say quietly. My eyes find Haymitch and he gives me a subtle thumbs-up. My answer was acceptable.

The camera crew actually has tears in their eyes.

Caesar looks to Peeta. "Do you have a response, Peeta? What are you thinking?"

"Well, Caesar, now that she has me, she's stuck with me." Peeta looks down at me. "There's no force in the world that can make me leave her."

His response draws sighs from everyone on set except for Haymitch, who rolls his eyes.

"Now, Peeta," Caesar begins. "What were you thinking lying in all that mud for days? I applaud your ability by the way! You completely disappeared. But what were you thinking all that time our Katniss was running around blowing things up?"

Peeta laughs. "Well, thanks for the compliment. Who knew frosting would be my last defense against death?" Caesar chuckles. "Honestly, I was just hoping that Katniss was alright. I was always looking toward the sky at night, praying that I wouldn't see her face."

"Did you think she'd come find you?" Caesar asks.

"Well I hoped she would," Peeta chuckles. "I wasn't really thrilled with the idea of dying."

"Of course not, of course not," Caesar laughs with him. "Especially with a girl like Katniss to live for, right?"

"Right."

The interview continues on, and I can tell we're about to wrap it up when Caesar asks the biggest question yet. He looks to me. "Katniss, I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries . . . what was going on in your mind, hmm?"

This was it. "It's like I told Rue and Peeta. For me, love is being unable to imagine surviving without him. I . . . I just . . . I can't live without Peeta. For me . . . I . . . the world just wouldn't be right without Peeta in it . . . my world wouldn't be right."

"Peeta? Anything to add?" Caesar asks.

In answer Peeta kisses me, soft and sweet. He doesn't look away from me when he replies, "No. I think that goes for both of us."

Caesar signs off and it's over. Haymitch then corrals us together and before I know it, we're fighting the throng at the train station on our way back to District 12. The moment the doors shut and the train begins to move, it all seems to crash down on me.

I'm going home.

Home. My mother. Prim. Gale . . .

We eat a large meal, all of us together, me, Peeta, Effie, and Haymitch. Afterwards, I excuse myself to change out of my dress. I change into a simple outfit of pants and a shirt. I meticulously wash all traces of makeup from my face. I braid back my hair. When I look into the mirror, I see Katniss Everdeen, the girl that I was before the reaping, before the Games. The Katniss that hunted in the woods with Gale. The Katniss from the Seam.

But inside, I'm not the same Katniss. I am no longer merely those things. I am now Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire. I'm one of the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. I'm in love with my fellow victor Peeta Mellark.

Two separate people, and I don't know how to mesh them. My past before the Games and my present now after the Games. They don't mix in my mind. It's like two separate lives. I feel the need to choose one. How can I possibly meld the two together? They are so completely different.

What will life be like when we get home? It won't be the same. I'll live in the Victor's Village, no longer the Seam. Peeta and Haymitch will be my neighbors. What will my life become? I now have more money that I know what to do with. What am I going to do?

When I return to the living area and take a seat beside Peeta, his arm around my shoulder does not carry the comfort that it has. It almost feels stifling. What will become of Peeta and I once we're back in 12? Before the Games, we hardly spoke except when trading in the morning. I'd been so distant then, afraid and wary of how my emotions seemed to roil inside me when I was near him. What now?

That was the question.

The train stops for fuel and Peeta asks if I want to 'escape the train, again.' Feeling the need for fresh air, I accept. We hold hands as we walk along the side of the tracks. I can't help but notice the little pink flowers that are growing in the grass to our left. They're wild onions. They remind of the woods, of Gale, of my life before the Games, before Peeta.

My hand slips from his.

"What's wrong?" Peeta asks.

"Nothing," I lie. "Did Haymitch tell you about the Capitol?"

"Yeah," Peeta sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "It'll be okay, though. They'll have to believe us. I mean, everything is true."

When I don't answer, I feel Peeta's hand on my shoulder. "Katniss?"

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I'm just . . . I don't know . . . the closer we get to 12, the more confused I feel!" I admit frustrated. The words are spewing from my mouth without a thought. "I don't know who I am anymore Peeta. So many things have changed. Before, we hardly spoke and now we're in love and I just, I don't know how to deal with it. Everything is going to be different now. My life. Everything. I just, I don't know who I am!"

"Katniss, slow down," Peeta puts both his hands on my shoulders. "You're still you. You're still Katniss. That hasn't changed."

"Yes it has!" I say frustrated. "I've changed. I'm different. Peeta, I feel like I'm two different people. One is from the Seam. She hunts in the woods. She doesn't believe in relationships or love or anything remotely romantic. And then the other is a victor and in love with you and feeling so much at one time that I don't know how to handle it!"

I can feel my emotional walls crumbling. Peeta cracked them and then the Games destroyed them. I'm feeling so much more than I'm used to and I don't know how to deal with it. It's like my father's death all over again. Overwhelming.

I don't know how to deal with it.

My eyes meet Peeta's when his hands come up to cradle my face. "Katniss, everything's going to be alright," he assures me. "We'll go home, move into the Village, and sure it will take a while, but everything will slowly go back to normal. I'm still going to work at the bakery. You'll still go into the woods. Our situation is changing Katniss, not _us_."

"I'm not good with change."

"I'll help you through it."

Peeta kisses me, and I can't help but kiss him back. I want to believe him. I really do. But things aren't that simple for me. I don't have Peeta's faith.

"Katniss, everything will be fine."

I shake my head. "You don't know that."

"Yes I do," Peeta says. "Listen, we love each other. I love you. You love me. That's all that matters. Everything else will fall into place."

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but words escape me. _I love you. You love me_.

My hesitation causes Peeta to look at me worriedly. I see rising panic in his eyes that he's fighting back. "Katniss?" he asks. "You do love me, right? I mean, you said . . . all this time . . . and . . . right?"

The answer is yes. I do love him, so much that I can hardly comprehend it. But I just can't seem to say it because it feels as though Gale's Seam-grey eyes are boring a hole into my back.

Run. Flee. That's my instinct. I can't deal with this right now. I just can't.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, feeling tears spring into my eyes before I turn on my heel and run back toward the train.

My thoughts are in a haze. My heart is beating like it's afraid it's about to beat its last. My breaths are coming in gasps. I don't know how to deal with everything that's changed me so completely. Still, selfishly, I can't help but look back at Peeta.

What I see makes me I wish I hadn't.

_End_.

* * *

**(runs from angry mob)**

**Sorry! But I _did_ drop hints! I made sure she thought about Gale at the appropriate times. I know this sucks, and we all want to throw Katniss against a wall and slap her silly, but we all know that she's an emotional idiot. Not to mention she's sixteen . . . a nice, ripe, confusing age. It had to end this way. I couldn't see a 'happy ending,' especially with Katniss and all these new feelings. In the Games, she really didn't have that much time to explore them. Yes, she could acknowledge them and accept them, but that's different from exploring these feelings and seeing how they will affect her life. She's just now realizing exactly how much her life will be affected, and frankly, it's practically a one-eighty from what she's used too. That's scary for anyone, but for Katniss it's downright terrifying. So, that was my thought process for ending it the way I have.**

**Just trust in the fact that I am no fan of senseless drama. I won't drag this 'break up of sorts' out. It will be dealt with rather quickly . . . with lots of yelling involved, but hey, they're teenagers. **

**Okay, let's talk about MLB. Today I'm actually moving into my dorm for college. Woo! Anyhoo, because the upcoming week is my very first week of college, and I want to really get settled in before I begin posting MLB, I'm going to take off that week from posting. That being said, mark your calendars, the first chapter of My Last Breath will be published Monday, August 27. I will update MLB on Mondays and Fridays. Again, Aug. 27 the first chapter shall be awaiting you! So put me on author alert if you haven't already! :)**

**So now I guess that I owe you guys one more teaser quote from MLB. I've saved my favorite (and in my opinion the best) quote for last. Since it's my favorite quote, naturally it comes from my favorite character . . . the one and only Haymitch Abernathy.**

**"Stop playing grab ass and get out here!"**

**I have to smile every time.**

**Signing off (however briefly),**

**AC**

**P.S. I know that I've never seriously asked for reviews before, but this is the last chapter so . . . please review? I've got a ton of readers that I haven't heard from and I want to! Drop me a line, please? Even a smiley face. I love smiley faces. See? :)**


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